CLXXXII
Funny how so many things once so important
Are long since forgotten.
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Mediocrity is the vice of a dull mind.
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Life as most know it
Is about the differences
And the passions they inspire.
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Concerning yourself
With what others think of you
Is a sure path to hell.
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It is your destiny to see.
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Challenging not to be infected by the desires of others.
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What you seek in another
Is much more likely to be found
Within your Self.
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That’s capital-S Self
For those who haven’t noted the grammar.
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The sleeping giant awakens,
As vain as ever.
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Oblivion is without parables.
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It is only fragmentation of your own vision
With which you nee be concerned.
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How can this moment truly ever be
Any different than any other?
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Why try to be what you already are?
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How quickly nothing can happen.
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Discern that which neither birth nor death
Nor the illusion of time between can master.
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As ordinary as ordinary can be.
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The flaw of consciousness
Is that it inevitably believes
Whatever it imagines, real.
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Islands in time seeking passage to eternity.
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Is it not astounding
To have been born into this
Or any other existence?
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What a challenge it is to somehow adapt
To this wondrously complex, at times vicious world
Into which you have somehow been born.
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Do you ponder how your end shall come?
Will it be slow or long, soft or harsh,
Through friend, foe, or serendipitous vortex?
How amazing it is to have been born without recollection,
And to inevitably leave all that is known, unreconciled and incomplete.
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To slow till still, what disciplined attention is required.
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Never be absorbed by the personas
Who write words such as these.
The seers, the prophets, the dreamers,
The philosophers are only you in another form.
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The pain some must endure
Is beyond comprehension.
Is there any answer to why?
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Nothing is new.
Nothing is old.
Except maybe irony.
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Bumbling around in our heads till death do us part.
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How arduous the lesson
That you cannot really help anyone
Without their complicity.
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No matter the claim to power, fame or fortune,
Without that very simple, profound and vital breath,
You are but food for buzzards and worms.
All pride is adrift in the echoes
Of eternity’s dust bin.
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What vanity permeates so much
Of what is thought, said and done.
To discern that which is prior
Is like an onion peeling
Toward the humble core.
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Eternity is infinitely, unvaryingly timeless,
Without attribute, motion or notion.
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You have always been alone, and shall ever be
Despite all the contrary distractions born of time.
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All forms are eternal,
But none will last.
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Concepts are such a tenuous fling.
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In the dust storm of eternity
Eden is a temporary illusion,
Born of the mirage of mind.
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What is there to covet in this world
Or any other time and space continuum,
Which does not evaporate into formlessness?
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Who does not cast judgment after judgment
Across their world every day in every way?
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That which is termed creation is divine will
Cast upon the infinity into every possibility,
Every permutation, every form imaginable.
Like foaming spray from a crashing wave,
All individual creations are of the same one.
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It is very difficult to explain something
To someone incapable of listening.
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We have barely scratched the surface
Of all the ways consciousness
Is capable of polarizing.
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Remember, no matter how badly this day has gone,
You can always begin somewhat anew tomorrow.
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If it has to be done, it has to be done.
And if there’s no one else around to do it,
Then it probably means you’re the one.
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A bitch is a bitch not matter how rich.
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What a blatant mockery organized religion
Is of the teachers whose teachings they usurp.
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One by one, the drops of consciousness evaporate
Into the formless sovereignty of indivisibleness.
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Any part is merely imagined.
No divisions are real.
All is one.
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When solving any given problem,
The first challenge is to glean enough
To identify what questions need answering
And then to have a mind open and flexible enough
To discern and accept whatever answer comes.
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There is no world, no universe, no god to please
But your own imagination.
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As radar blips go in this universe,
The earth and the human species
Are as tiny and insignificant
As an anthill is to you
Across the world.
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Plan too much and you risk missing the serendipity.
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“Your” consciousness?
Don’t be ridiculous.
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Are you able to enjoy existence
Without becoming attached to it?
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Allow the breath to erase time.
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Two bullets smash into one another,
As do floating particles of dust.
The wind caresses a flower.
All just passing dreams
Of the same play.
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Paying or not paying attention
To the passing reflections of others
Is a choice born of free will.
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If you did not imagine time and space, would it exist?
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What is the craving for recognition
So inherent in the human mind?
What has made us so insecure?
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What is the quality of a mind so passionately caught up
In the hatred of others because of one difference or another?
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The princess and the pea is no fairytale.
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What an addictive force the elixir of pride and vanity.
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What movement could be gauged without the stillness?
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The manifest dream offers many things to know,
But once it is known that thou art that,
Of what importance can any difference make?
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Does the universe create you,
Or you the universe?
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Look to your own pride before judging another’s.
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Whoever says life is fair or just
Is a liar, or more likely
Just a damn fool.
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You will be free when you have nothing
With which you identify.
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You will perhaps project upon these words your own ends.
Just realize to whatever degree you are able,
That all ends are delusion.
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How can something that is not, want?
Takes some imagination.
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How ironic all this is.
People in every corner of this world
Wandering around exclaiming how wonderful life is
While they suffer in every way imaginable.
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The human species is quite expendable.
Call it cynical, pessimistic or nihilistic if you’re inclined,
But that’s the way it is.
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You will not go home until you’re done
With your attachment to consciousness.
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Notness is your true state.
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If not now, when?
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To keep it simple is, perhaps,
One of the most arduous things
To attempt during this brief sojourn
Through the inundation of material mania.
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How does it feel to be a guinea pig in a petri dish?
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There are physiological sensations
Habitually associated with fear, desire and anger.
Detach from the attachment to the body,
To see how temporal it truly is.
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Excessive dreaming may be a sign
That you are having trouble
Tuning in to reality.
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Breathe without doubt.
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Seek the imaginary kingdom of godness within.
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Humanity teamed up to survive,
But must now disband its destructive creation
For the same reason.
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You are not inquiring into this
For the sake of the many mirrors
Cropping up again and again before you.
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Abolish all authority within.
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There you go again, rushing off into time.
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To believe you are a separate soul
Is founded upon a conceptual source,
Which does not, cannot ever really exist
Except in the imaginary drama of the mind.
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Godness is the duality masking the inherent unity.
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A truly still mind is dead to time.
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The babble of humanity all distills into the cosmic hum.
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The rift between you and godness,
Created entirely by you,
Is so effortlessly mended.
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You are the causeless source of all cause,
The pointless meaning of all purpose.
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The only obligations you have are the ones you create
Either by yourself, or from the mirrors all about you.
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You stay on because the dancing play of the senses,
The movement of consciousness unfolding,
The mystery of time and space,
And the field upon which all is played
Is too enticing for all but the most aloof to resist.
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Consciousness is like a flower
Blooming anew every moment.
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You are, because it is your nature to be so.
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All these thoughts will mean nothing to you
Until the pain of separation is no longer remedied
By the distracting placebos offered in the mortal theater.
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Far too amazing to be real.
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Caught in the web of self-absorption again and again.
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The suffering herds you homeward.
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The Cheshire Cats appear and disappear at will.
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When you are no longer a part,
What is there to be but the whole?
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Do the words you utter match your deeds?
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You appear to be what circumstances dictate,
But you are not, have never been, and will never be.
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How easy it is to take oneself so seriously,
To feel so intensely about this or that
Concerning a locality, a world,
Or the universal dream that it all is.
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It will be whatever you imagine it to be
Until imagination’s end.
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As long as you participate as an attached persona,
You will travel the endless labyrinth of suffering.
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The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved