Chapter 71 - The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)


LXXI

If these thoughts represent something true,
Any mystic-scientist will realize the same unicity.

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Time is the creator of all burdens.

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Do not settle for incomplete answers.

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Learner and learned are the same.

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Alas, the sordid tales seem unending.
All from the same insatiable center.

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Fill yourself with your Self.

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How amazing that we have
So complacently allowed ourselves
To be numbered the same as cattle or sheep.

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How little you can ever truly know.

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Mark these words with an eraser.

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How weary you become of all the chatter at times.

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Count your money and things as often as  your will,
They are the barren, tasteless fruit of this epic mystery.

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So many so full of the propaganda of time.

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Everyone rationalizes their decisions one way or another.

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So many who regurgitate what they consider religion,
Attempting so persuasively to convince others
To reason it as delusionally as they do,
May be even more vehemently
Convincing themselves
Their own lie true.

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What an odd thing to believe any of this truly matters.

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Detach, now.

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You have the right to say it,
But do you have the wisdom not to.

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Bullshit before, bullshit after.
No rest till death do you join.

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Life is a collage of memories.

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Why should godness be confined
By any act or thought?

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Every form is inhabited in absoluteness.

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The worst is not yet over for the world’s diversity.

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Will the bureaucrats someday try to get control
Of your inalienable right to take a pee or a poop?

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Truth is the essence of illusion.

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But for your thoughts travelling through it,
Every moment is exactly the same.

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Flexibility lends itself to adaptability.

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The garden will again make itself known.

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Allow yourself to be the joy.

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Prejudice is the outcome of fear,
Of the narrowness of a mind
Unable to expand upon
Its tethered nature.

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What is freedom
But the courage to explore,
To experience anything one chooses

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So much effort to become something, or be somewhere else.
So much discontent, and so little understanding why.

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Ultimately its all just a play
Of Self creation and Self destruction.
What other point is necessary?

* * * *
Ethics is a personal inquiry,
A life process of Self discovery.

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You shall be free
When you no longer contend
With the temptation of the senses.

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It seems no niche of consciousness shall go unexplored.

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It is not easy to accept so much of what this dream entails.
So much insanity, so much confusion, so much heartbreak,
So much cruel self-absorbed intent, so much lost innocence.
A vast experiment in the madness of personal consciousness,
The corruption of free will. The vanity, vanity, all is vanity of it all.

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Adrift in the swells of time, you conceive free will.
Yet the many choices you make are so predictable
Within the parameters of your genetic predisposition
And adaptation to the playground in which you are set.

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What is yours, really?

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All one, yet so many divisions
Born of the fragmented mind.

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The inertia of history is the parable of the Titanic.

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A parable echoes back messages
Only inner vision can discern.

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Your god can have ya.

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What suffering infatuation can wreak.

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Eternal joy is the happiness free of time’s burdens.
Forsake the world and what is there but laughter?

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Past the edge, there is nowhere to go.

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Many of these reflections are the result
Of meandering of word association.

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If I were an ancestor to all this confusion,
I’d certainly be shaking my head in disbelief.

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Wisdom is just seeing patterns for what they are.

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All these thoughts pose no solution
But a return to the simplicity of being,
Something we at this juncture in time
Are quite unwilling and probably
Incapable of bringing about.
Mother nature will have
To prune her garden
Of its excesses.

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You are all the same godness.

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All our revolutions and wars,
Really only frivolous squabbles,
Only escort us into further disarray.

* * * *
Like it or not, all abide in one niche or another.
Your choices are as narrow as your thinking.
Though we may aspire for more, most of us
Are bit players, never achieving dot-hood
On any of history’s assorted timelines.

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Whether the target of notoriety or adulation, you a delusion unto thy Self.
How ironically amusing that you are so often the buffoon of your own creation.

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Across space and time, it is all you.

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Angels are aliens in the devil’s den.

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With every step you chart the course of your existence.

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You refine the skills for necessity or interest.

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The pits and hollows of consciousness
Are born of your own whimsical choosing.

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Are you in desire’s grip, or it in yours?

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You are ruled by the hunger of your field.

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To believe that one moment, one place,
Is any more consequential than any other,
Is, in the light of this larger view, rather naive.

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Who really gives a gnat’s ass what you think?
And do you need them to?

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Why burden yourself with obligation?

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When you want nothing, right relationship is effortless.

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Herein all is taken away,
So that you can see reality as it is.

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Sexuality is a chemical-electrical high,
And like all drugs, should be treated
With great respect and prudence.

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Sit by the river until you become the river,
Wherever life’s excursion may take you.

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The world is as you label it.

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You can only change change.

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Your just don’t want to miss out on more of the same.

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Knowledge is the poisonous fruit of the garden.

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What any of them think
Is what you believe they think.

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You own all things, have been all things.
See the simple poverty of all things.

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The shortest distance between two points
Is in your mind.

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Your don’t need to know all the details
To catch the drift of the gist.

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The answer pales in time.

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Every dream is a mirage of its own weaving.

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Concepts taking shape journey dreamtime’s wave
For as long as the mortal weaving allows.
But for the mind of the many,
They existed not at all.

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Once you’ve put together something,
What to do but play with it,
Watch it, maintain it, destroy it,
Or reshape it into something else?

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The races consciousness concocts
Can never be won but through time.

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What happened before
Is what happened since.
The a priori does not exist.

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Live and let live somewhere else.

* * * *
Prepare for the reckoning.

* * * *
It is your presence
Which breathes life
Into knowledge.

* * * *
Every game has a set of rules.
No one will ever like all of them.

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What grace there is in forgiveness.
Yet how much more arduous
Not to take any offense
In the first place.

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Always try to keep your options unrestricted,
Your attachment to any one pattern
To a relative minimum.

* * * *
Its all endlessly moot.

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Go in all the way, go out all the way.
In the most real sense it is all the same,
Yet still all diversity must play out the game.

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When has mere pleasure truly brought you joy?

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All agendas are relative.
Purposes concocted in the filtration
Of time’s countless dreams.

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Just because you seem to know a lot
Doesn’t mean you really know anything.

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Vampires only give you attention
If the taste of your blood suits them.

* * * *
Expand into the meaning these words ring.

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The quantification of the human experience
Is the weight that causes its inevitable fall.

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It is unlikely anyone will agree
With every reflection written here.
They are, as everything else, subject
To the caprice of the personal existence.

* * * *
Human beings are just like earthworms
With added components and exteriors.

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You learn what you need to learn
For what you think you need to know.

* * * *
You cannot capture truth.
It  becomes you

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You are the truth, the light and the way.

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Why suffer for your aloneness?

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Another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Ollie.

* * * *
What do you want?
The eternal question.

* * * *
If you are the staid center of your universe,
You will allow that all others are as well.

* * * *
What an appalling world
To bring a child into.

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Godness has never seen its own face
But through the reflections of the other.

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A sovereign of nothing.

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This, too, will be forgotten.

* * * *
The tyranny of self-doubt flays the soul.

* * * *
A good breath is to die for.

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Why would anybody care about that?

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If it is worth a death,
And every sort of suffering imaginable,
By all means, come on down, live that life, dream that it is.

* * * *
So much pride over things in which none have any say.


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The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved