CLXXXVI
Truth.
That which words can never tell.
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It won’t stop till it stops for good,
And even then, who knows?
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As short as life is,
Eternity is much, much shorter.
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How ridiculous not to at least like yourself.
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Egads, not again.
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Feelings?
As in stub your toe feelings?
Or the imaginary ones?
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All assumptions are unreal.
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There is irony in every part and particle.
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Done’s done as much as done can be.
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Words aren’t really of much use where you’re headed.
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Freedom is not about taking
Or doing anything you want.
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Doing nothing well is an art form
To which you cannot aspire.
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Pretty hard to find it
When you’re searching around
Everywhere else but this here this now.
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What an untenable grip time has upon the human mind.
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There is no your way, there is no my way.
There is only the Way, and the essence
From which all forms burst into being.
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Though history grips the human drama,
It need not be your personal burden.
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About a different purpose than most.
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Why would god be bound by man-built invention?
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A lot of stories don’t make it so.
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The circuitry of any given mind
Is such an endless maze of potential.
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Ironic how hellish “forever after” can be.
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Seeing is, of course, its own curse.
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How about you go somewhere else to get a life?
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Wherever you may wander,
It is ever the same ground
Through which all things pass.
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Neither ideas nor senses are ultimately real.
All are merely neurological metaphors
Washing about the play of light and shadow.
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Another sagging heap of flesh.
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God: An imaginary friend similar in nature
To the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and Harvey.
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You really are your own imaginary friend, or demon,
Whichever the case may be in any given moment.
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Resigned love.
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Can humanity every pull its mind together?
That is the research of time’s invention.
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In far too many words,
You are shown that there is a way,
What it is, what it is not, and that there is,
In reality, really no way at all.
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The sort of rascals who write these words
Are in the eye of every creature great and small
Across the dream of time’s fabrication.
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The first Christ was of a time long before the dawn of civilization,
When words were much younger and god was barely a concept.
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Those who fabricate spiritual hierarchies
Operate a theater only the delusional attend.
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Life is an opportunity to witness the dream of godness,
And if doubt-free, to return to the origin of all origins,
That to which even the greatest spirit can lay no claim.
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Birth me, kill me times beyond counting,
The essence is ever untouched, ever unborn,
Without any beginning, without any end,
Eternal prior to comprehension.
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These writings are playing games
With a mind beyond imagination.
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No void shall stand.
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One is one no matter how you add it up.
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God may seem a separate entity to those who will it so,
But those who see know they are the knowing
To which even god must ascribe.
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You will believe what you want to believe
Until you distinguish that all beliefs are imagined,
And none are required by those of the mind prior to time.
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The devil, maya, illusion, call it what you will,
Is afoot in every corner of the mind in time.
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Every mind is ensnared by the duality of illusion.
Even angels wander the vain corridors
Of the mirage they are given.
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Respect intelligent authority.
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You and a supporting cast of billions,
All part of the current crop of consciousness.
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The monkey grows weary.
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The sage cultivates no vain hope.
S/he is impartial to the passing show,
Observing all as one and one as all,
Creating and destroying as quickly
As the senses weave the dream,
As quickly as no-mind ever is.
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Can there ever be
Any more magical an existence
Than that offered to those whose destiny
Is to witness the grandest vision?
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But for your witnessing it,
Would anything ever exist?
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That which is most necessary
Is the space at the center
That makes the wheel possible.
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What greater evil than total self-absorbed isolation?
What greater good than utter self-annihilation?
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The universal mind is that oneness
Beyond the deceptive veil of time and space,
That magical source from which all diversity originates,
But to which few are fated to consciously return.
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Gardeners must be brutal in order to manifest their vision.
Eden will be pruned of that which does not serve
The enigma of its pointless purpose.
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The bubble of consciousness in which each life dwells
Is an illusory universe, an imagined state
To which few take a needle
And pop and pop
Until the popping’s done.
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Fortunes are made, fortunes are lost,
But true wealth is beyond all counting.
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Your date of expiration is written in one wave or another.
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The flaw of consciousness is that it came into being at all.
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Looking ahead, it’s called free will.
Looking back, fate.
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You are a drop of the ocean without measure.
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Free will falls into a very narrow sliver of fate.
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Others will see you as they want to see you,
Until you show them otherwise.
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Each and every breath
Is the playground of birth and death,
And everything between.
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To what ends the quest for money will take
Is an endless array of woeful tales.
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Your universe is as arbitrary as mine.
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Perhaps no one is innocent,
But some are much more guilty than others.
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Unwarranted vanity.
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How many ways consciousness devises to torture itself.
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The challenge is seeing that everything you know
Is based on one arbitrary assumption or another.
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So much ignorance to know.
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Paradigms are changed one mind at a time.
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Life is a process that sometimes
Forces you to let go of what was,
And learn a new ways of seeing.
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An arbitrary conundrum.
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So many adventures outside the cave of origin.
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The glory days of youthful exuberance gradually succumb
To the mortal realization that many journeys
Lead to painful endgames.
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You are
Therefore you must be
That You Are.
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Contrary to all delusions,
Humanity is not in charge here.
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In this world there are those who give and those who take.
Too few find the balance between.
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Self-absorbed for so little reason.
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What do you touch, see, taste, smell and hear
But the dust of the cosmic storm?
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Tombs and ceremony comfort the living.
For the dead, any dumpster will do.
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Where is the mind free of craving?
Free of gain and loss?
Free of the desire for security?
Residing in the indescribable oneness
Prior to the hellish confines of space and time.
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Madmen know no limits.
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Many seem so sure on one thing or another in this world.
They strive and measure from dawn till dusk,
And in their dreams as well.
But others want little
From this mortal existence
And doubting all they sense, approach
With dust-like humility that which erases all doubt,
Eventually disappearing into the oblivion, anonymous and free.
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Who craves experience as if it really matters?
Who dwells in time’s play of space?
Who dreams the dream,
Scripts the play,
Creates the set,
Delivers the dialogue,
And sallies toward vain conclusion?
Who is the weaver of this imaginary concoction?
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If you are one who asks how to serve this needy world,
Pause, be silent, patient, attentive to the moment.
What is required will unfold without effort.
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You may play it out in any way you choose,
Yet there is really no choice in any matter,
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Times have always been a-changing,
Yet what is truly the difference
Between new and old?
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Those destined to see
Will see no matter the cost.
Fate is written by the inclination
That sustains any given day-to-day.
You would not be reading this
If the deepest longing
To ascertain that which you truly are
Was not incomprehensibly driving you toward
The most obvious, most simple, most profound reality.
Many are called, but few are chosen.
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Mystics are the jesters of play.
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Future and past are the collective imagination.
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The lightening storms of thought
Can be creatively pleasurable when focused
And painfully destructive when not.
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Some are not easily discouraged,
While others can barely stand
Facing another moment.
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Poor Jesus.
If he only knew what a charade
His memory has become.
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Why don’t you come up with a real problem for a change?
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Never assume a good memory implies intelligence.
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Death tends to bury all secrets.
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Watch the watcher watching
And you will one day discern
That you are it and it is you,
The witness to all stories,
Be they the fires of hell
Or the bliss of heaven.
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The challenge to living a long life
Is surviving all the errors of judgment.
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There is no supreme being,
Only the essential nature
From which all being springs.
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Master of your fate?
Tell it to the Reaper.
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Too loud and obnoxious to hear,
Much less understand.
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You can only care for so many things.
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The only thing to figure out
Is that there’s nothing to figure out.
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The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved