27 August 2013

Chapter 78 - The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)


LXXVIII

We are all caged by the power of imagination.
Only in detachment can delusion discern its end.

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So much different, so much the same.

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The powerless colored powerful
So often make others suffer
For all their insecurities.

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Trial by fire, trial by fuck-up.

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Paradox, irony, riddle, delusion.
All lies, all truth.

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You need not be a scholar to see truth.

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Who but the world-weary question?

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What point in being a guest in your own house?

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The ignorant will inherit the earth.

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You were godness long before you were born,
And shall be long after you resign the field.

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What’s the point of philosophy
If there is no perception of mastery
Whatever the context, over your universe?

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Genius and wisdom are not confined by age.

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If you tempt fate by putting yourself in harm’s way,
Be prepared for the consequences.
And try not to whine.

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The demand for drugs is growing
Because they invoke a peace of mind
Few can acquire on their own.

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Dance heartily to your destruction.

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Any game runs relatively smoothly
As long as everyone follows the same rules.

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Few recognize genius until after it passes.

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“Praise buddha for this opportunity
To befriend and console my opponents,”
He screamed as they again flipped the switch.

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Is it the concept that creates the problem,
Or the mind that manipulates its use?

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Every creature ever manifested on this planet
Has participated in one niche, one context or another.
Those whose habitats collapse change or perish.
Adapt or die.

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All the concepts ever wrought
Cannot fill even a thimble of eternity.

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Is it an issue of power, or of vision?

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You who read these words
Are the seers, the chosen ones
Given free reign over all dominions
Inspired by the dream of consciousness.

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We are all the eye of godness, but few
Seem called to witness it consciously.

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It is impossible for the you that you imagine
To exist in the nowness you truly are.
You cannot be resurrected into eternal life.
Until you discern the youness that is prior to time.

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You will only know, only see,
What it is your destiny to perceive.

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If you do not convert something into a concept,
You deal with it directly, free of that which is prior.

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The sheen of space-time is the eternal distraction.

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Humanity is most decidedly not
The highest life form in all creation.

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Piecemeal thoughts brought together
In a random inspirational fashion.

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Being, timelessly still, keenly observant,
Is the work of those to whom Self beckons.

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The day you die is really no different
Than the one on which you were conceived,
Or any through which the temporal dream passes.

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The pain of sickness, injury, aging and dying
Are annoying disturbances to mortal existence.
If god was truly a nice guy he wouldn’t make
Such a hellish enterprise of pleasure.

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We must each heed the call of our destiny.

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Passion is an open sore.

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Courage, Pilgrim, courage.

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Neither a borrower nor lender be.
True again and again.

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It is a tough fucking world when you’re not,
But can be even more trying when you are.

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Wander into your fate.

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Despite the play of the clay,
The ground is ever the same.

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Where does the universe go
When you blink your eyes?

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God is your imagination,
Or perhaps, a lack of it.

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Only the weak, the powerless
Imitate or follow the powerful.

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The human condition is contrived.

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The successful bureaucrat quickly learns
That the gradual erosion of freedom
Causes only resigned grumbling.

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It is belief that gives any conceptual mirage reality.

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Even the mightiest god must someday return home.

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Silence is the streaming without conceptual static.

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Just another moment best left passed.

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How challenging to put both
The agony and ecstasy behind you.

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Odds are you bring upon yourself far more pain
Than any other ever will.

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There is a clear, purposeful, intense purity
About the savagery of the instinctual nature
Which puts civilized humanity to shame.

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No matter how the ocean roars,
Its nature is serenely absolute.

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As if any earthbound church
Could even hold a candle to that within.

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Why compare yourself with another
Once you see all comparison,
All differences are only imagined.

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How often one day’s resolve
Becomes tomorrow’s foam.

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Actors who really believe their parts
Are inevitably better actors.
Those who don’t become mystics.

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Without one limiting factor or another, it is likely inevitable
That any given life form will breed itself out of existence.

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The longest way is sometimes the shortest.
The shortest is sometimes the longest.
Light can blind, darkness enlighten.

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Silence is heaven’s greatest orchestration.

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Some people just like making promises
They have no intention of keeping.

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Is it any less a dust storm than it ever was?

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The most real revolution in modern times
Would be agricultural self-sufficiency.

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Funny how almost every opinion seems
To invoke more and more division.

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Political correctness works well
Until the knife threatens your throat.

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All the eyes of godness will never see themselves,
Only the reflections of a sensory existence.

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The movement is the measurement.
The immeasurable mind is a still, ordered mind.
It is a reflection of the all-seeing, all-knowing, all-being one
It is the truth, the light, the way, eternal and absolute.

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You may command a board game or simulation,
But what sort of general would you be
Amid the acrid smoke and screams of the dying?

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How many years will you wager his return?
Will you ever wake up to the real message of the story?

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In a savage garden, who is the most ruthless spawn?

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What need for other realities,
For dreams, visions and powers
Once you recognize a direct link-up?

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To take it all personally is a mistake we all make.

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How much life has suffered for all our ‘scientific’ inquiry.
How would we fare if the creatures of this world were to judge us
For the incalculable tortures of our war upon nature?

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Life is a swirl of faces and names,
Of bodies and claims, of notoriety and shames.

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Who is this Anon fellow?

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Your universe is subjective.
Why should anyone else’s be less so?
After all, is anything really anything but intuition,
No matter the many layers of pretense?

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Beginnings begin now, endings end now.
Beginnings end now, and endings begin now.
Causes become effects, effects causes, all now.
Time is the illusion, the delusion of consciousness.

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How can a circle be round?
How can time die?

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Is there anything more demonic than calculated rage,
Or more angelic than spontaneous caring?

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Mortal existence is a promise that cannot be long kept.

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The trick sometimes
Is convincing yourself
You’re having fun.

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The real nightmare would be
If heaven were a corporate operation.

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A good natural disaster makes a broken nail
Seem, perhaps, a little less traumatic.

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The best loneliness is when it doesn’t
Even occur to you that you’re alone.

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The context invokes your passage through it.

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To smite any apparatus,
Do you become one, stay human,
Or some spiraling combination?

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Is there really such a thing as meaningful work?
Or is it all contrived by the excesses of too many too often?

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Despite all appearances to the contrary,
You cannot stop or even slow the stream.

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What a romp in absurdity.

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What you are, what you truly have,
Is yours wherever, whenever, however,
Whatever, whoever, whyever you are.
Eternity can never be quelled
In any way whatsoever

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You cannot die, but to death.

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Fear not, no matter the storm, for thou art the harbor.

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Death is as death does.

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Is consciousness as it is known truly any more
Than a hierarchy of weights and measures?

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The universe is as old as you make it.

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The mind incessantly measures all it imagines.
Judge not and you will not be judged.
Catch the paradox of the joke
You play on yourself.

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The frenzy of our creation must by its own devices
Bring about its inevitable destruction.

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Your psychological-emotional response to anything
Speaks adroitly of those things called life issues.

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Everything is connected at the quantum level,
Every action rippling to and fro across all dimensions.
Through what dark valleys will the future pass
With so much ignorance at the helm.

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You want justice?
May as well blow your head off in this world.

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Do you really need to know so much?
What’s the point?

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Life can sometimes be a very tiring miracle.

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How much pain, how much pleasure
Will you endure before that last exhale?

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Image is a many-wondered thing.

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There is really nothing at all to worry about.

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To really not care, how freeing.

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Humanity needs for something to happen to it
That will make the flood look like a bathtub ring.

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Inevitable you will get kicked off the pedestals others create.

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Life is short, and getting shorter every moment.

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Free will is at best a superficial delusion,
A guise in which to extrapolate your true being.


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