the unbearable beauty of dawn

the unbearable beauty of dawn, the flesh toned temptress laying across the distant hills and trees, fingers of fog drifting through the light, veils across the dreaming heart of endless promise. flaunting the darkness once more as fog descends across all. there is nothing but the ghosts remaining, shrouded sentinels of the woods patient in stillness bristling arms striking poses through the grey lens and returning to a half sleep of the night since gone but morning held at arms length, obedient to the encroaching blankets of the windless wanderers. all is the color of the dream, the memory of the plunge into madness and delight, left behind with the crack of the eyelids and fettered with the truth of a world that refuses to awaken. warm inside the unlit palaces of the common laborer, the hampered domain of parents not gone and unforgotten through ages of civility and damnation treading on waters so deep there is no end to the heartless truth of death or life as decay takes everything but the meager remains stacked on every wall and counter and living through every stick of wooden furniture and memoried article of glass and residues of their light left imprinted in the squares of faces and places from times lost and best forgotten but never let go.even the chair and table here is fierce with its remembrances and pain, the china patterned dishes stacked careless with the plastic squares of the modern world, remnants of a lost childhood remain unbroken through a world of timeless traumas and delights, lost in a halo of frightened thoughts less alive than the mind imagines, but striking chords deep in the heart that can never be loosed without the curse revisited. what mother and grandfather, uncles aunts, children and grandchildrens throughout the ever lasting sequence the holding of the collectiveness and the universal of all children becoming all great grandparents until all is one uncollapsed bridge of eternal sighs and recollections that cannot be separated from this moment or this feeling or anyones consciousness caught up in the world vision of every infinitesimal thought impulse need desire every fear and dream all times for all beings from all places in the one thought that cannot be forgotten that is the meaning of every soul bound to this plane of existence, to be to be to be always being in the drowning of the self that has no end to wanting.

love of doing

love of doing, the love affair with the world, the flesh made life, all the pretty things, made real with believing, the trust of love that never thinks of itself but plunges without thought into the game. all is the reflection of the truth in which you reside, untouched, dispassionate, removed, yet in one part all is being given, manifesting the endless drama of existence, the acceptance of all shortcomings and failures as real and important just as success and victory seem to be. but there is only the field of awareness and the endless creation upon it, the true being rests in the unending bliss of consciousness manifesting bliss, all existence flowering in unending profusion and certainty, endless love and joy, for nothing can touch the dreamer but the dream and with a moment of realization, the music stops and the lights go up revealing the stage and all the players. no one is there not even you, the universe stops and the being requires nothing, endlessly. here all is one, divine potential and undivine corruption all dissolve into light and from that light the source remains removed and beyond the temporal nature of existence. no human artifice can describe the unknowable yet we are more than human and through that the connection to what has nothing to hold becomes known through the empty heart suddenly filled with wonder. be free of all knowing and doing and all shall be delight.

the world like a round rubber ball

the world like a round rubber ball keeps bouncing in smaller and smaller arcs, one less than the last, and rolling downhill away further and further. the animals of earth trapped in alien machines filled with toxic chemicals, working harder and harder to create artificial life in the artificial environment they call civilisation. the walls, floors and ceilings of crushed inert materials filled with long lasting poisons that they raise their children in, machines of increasingly expensive gadgetry that require greater and greater sacrifice to own and operate, and ensure that each owner is trapped in the world designed only for the movement of the machines, and not for the inward journey of the soul. no one has time to secure their own truth their own intuitive calling, to find the lost kingdom and regain the center of being and the connection to all universal forces. all are in their lost lives avoiding the sadhana the dharma of the soul. for each there is a reason, the poverty, the injustice, the uselessness, all find fault without and fear to find the truth within. the ego has no investment in stepping aside, relinquishing control, letting what will happen when truth is faced squarely, and life as it has been lived is found to be empty. in all the seed is planted, some say there are many without even the seed, that may be, but if you are reading this the seed is already sprouting, to find sunlight and air that is not contaminated with desire and fear, where love holds all beings and miracles are everywhere you look and hear and feel. the playland of the soul is the heart, not the mind, for mind is the separate self, the small nature the limited being, only the heart can feel free and allow the mind to stop. take no action but to move inward and travel the loving journey from the fearful mind, to the open heart.

in the arms of the world

in the arms of the world, entrapped and bound, the life of the common man, adrift like the empty containers tossed to the sea, there is no place for the empty self, it has no home or goal or place, it languishes and turns in the wind, unobstructed by walls or shelter. one side is the immovable everything, the other the irresistible suction of the void, the nothingness, the enraptured silence. zephyrs flow through the valleys of decision shooting for release, a crack an opening, the world erected cliffs converge and force upward the flight that cannot end or be contained. no sky abounds above or below the empty sea bottoms and has no place to go, all is stuck and still, the forced and pulled aside, where the flow is free nothing can hold on, all is swept before and behind as the windmills burn in tune to the rhythms of the pulsating thunder and burning fire. the world trembles in the cosmic wind like a leaf in the open range fluttering with the coming peril and the imminent passage, all lives beating like a drum fearing the coming darkness. the road taken is less than it seems and leads to nothing the road not taken goes on forever and cannot be found without naked feet stripped to the bone in flesh that feels dry and twisted. each step another nail another plank another foot closer to the end. one dressed in silence hears the truth another singing walks serenely past, the fall from the cliffs to the rocks of reason and security leaves no passengers behind and only the wind blows further on.

its incredible to imagine

its incredible to imagine that life and rebirth happen continuously, that all expansion and contraction, connection and rendering separation, consciousness and unconsciousness, all exist basically simultaneously in the human system. only when the system has been purged of all differentiation does the cycling end and the acceptance of any experience become the awareness of all experience as the same, without any change but rather only one shade of color replacing another until all end  in one brilliant whiteness. the world is not the goal of existence,it is the crucible of awareness and the practice field for love. as these talents are explored and perfected the world drops away, the suffering diminishes and the truth is revealed in every stroke of the mystic creator. who you are and what you become and why this happens is no mystery, but the realization of divine love and pure being removes all questions and doubts. to become love, unity, pure awareness everything that was important in human life must be let go, life death, wealth, emotions fear possessions, all become meaningless props for the realization of the truth, after which none of these matter,  dispassion and sense of detachment envelope all sense of the world. what matter the drama of life when life itself has no purpose or meaning except the one to become the divine manifested in human form. all else is a game of murderous infants bent on self destruction. life is not a preparation for death, nor is death the reason to live, one has only to see that the purpose of death is to give the system a break from the life drama it refuses to end or change towards the true purpose. once the life drama is intervened upon, the system removes itself from the play of life and involves the soul in its ancient journey. here is the end of the play and the the beginning of truth, to let go the childishness and become the truth of love and consciousness, not as an ego expanding, but as the self ending and the force and truth and light evolve from within to encompass all that exists within and without the unmeasured space of all existence and from that which never begins or ends.

time, age, the world shifts

time, age, the world shifts deeper into the background, the seconds keep flowing with the sweep of the hand, life becomes the current and the journey through it a circle of impressions less remembered than imprinted, for the brain cannot maintain the continual activity so what remains is the burned in responses and reactions, the world swirling by only noticed when the light catches a familiar shape or face. everything is reduced to familiarity, the unexpected or unknown encompasses everything else and is unwelcome , home family the wealth of preservance is the foremost, all the remains of a life once hard fought and built with the nails of bone and the glue of blood. and in the dire straights the hardest times, all that is remembered is love, the rest is a blur of self serving faces and places that surrendered nothing served only themselves and lost any meaning for anyone. the destruction of the self leaves little else, for outside of that structure, everything becomes a tool of the divine to both bind and set loose the soul that has no need of anything but is trapped in an illusion of its own creation. what is, becomes the soup of death and the making of the next generations prisons or freedoms. there is no choice but to surrender this life or the next for what is gained for the heart but the feeling of regret or repeated phantoms of desire and distant thoughts of what once meant forlorn happiness, the moments stolen from a life of wages and sin. no one remains untouched but everyone suffers with the coming of the end, seeing all destroyed by its own creator, the spirit seeks some truth, some explanation about all the world is, filled with fictional characters dreaming themselves in a tale that has great meaning but no worth to the soul, this life, all is seen for the false and the truth and the rest just fades away.

the soul unliberated, suffers not

the soul unliberated, suffers not, as the heart unused has no feelings, it is only once the nature of the system is aroused, does it begin to resonate with the rhythms of the natural creation. there is a lesser and greater nature that men contrive in their noblest visage, to become a charitable being to transcribe their fate from the block letters of infancy to the cursive strokes that express most the individual fingerings and delicate nuances of their created selves. in each is the unwritten pursuit to become not as others would expect but as a newness or an unexpected opposite, surprising all with daring and freshly painting the world in hues before unseen.some grasp the calligraphy of the heart and touch with the wings they draw a million children singing, others the weight of petulance and sorrow declines and into the tar like substance all are drawn and suffer the ancient horror of the dying lizards of the prehistoric dwellers. we see nothing but what we desire and give only what is free within, leaving many doors unopened and many lives unlived. all speciality and uniqueness vanish with the grasping of the endless totems and coins, the harvest ends but the storing of the wealth never falters, forces without end compromise the truth, the freedoms the personal aspirations and twist each thought to their own preservance, what is left is a sad reckoning of man made happinesses and weak brewing tea that no sugars or draughts of spice can infuse with pleasure for the imbiber. the naturalness and enjoyment that the day and night contain never change yet always fill the open heart completely, not so with the buildings and factories made of greed and desire. from these come a smug complaint of hammered sacrifice that ends no ones complaint and suffers for the lack of wanting more. let loose the world of need and embrace the needless heart, be free to love and to aspire and to realize every dream and dreamers wakening, dawn and day come freely and so the enjoyer of its delight sleeps well upon the nights brilliant splendor.

has anything become too much

has anything become too much? to be focused with the moment of creating truth, love, consciousness in each interaction, for every being with aspiration, to be the example of the qualities that define the process, without speaking, this is forever, this has no end, no completion, for the work is never done. whatever was planned or scheduled or arranged is just the dressing on the window never the light that comes through the glass that must be shined brightly before anything else is required. the morning the evening all hours surround the work patterned like roses in a garden, each at their appointed time in the rhythms of nature, the bud coming forth, then opening to the light in its own pattern its perfect light shining down. the place is never taken where we sit to pray and work and imagine, for everything is the product of inspiration there is no effort to the true will of the divine for all water flows unimpeded to its resting nature of oceans filled and deep beyond knowing. there resides the purpose and the plan the matrix of knowledge and affinity, the plasticity of being in the universal and holding each heart without trembling or desire.all is the unspeakable truth and the inexhaustible love that surrounds everything and cannot be touched but only felt. whatever was the moment that brought this to its expression, that followed and molded and turned and returned to bring light through these unseen eyes filled with such vision that no one can see but they know that only one life is lived and all lives follow the path of devotion and no cruelty is greater than love found at last destroying all notion that anything was ever left behind or lost only cast forth into the sea always returning in every wave and drop falling on such barren soil where this life flowers to wander freely and all else awaits the light that never sleeps.

the ancient self

the ancient self the one being the eternal force of unmanifest truth, the one unknowable connection from the consciousness through awareness into the void, where man and master and being flow without feature or meaning from this ceaseless chaos into perfect structure and love and finally into the unending maw of desire and ruin, born to die and to live as one paradox that has no resolution in the mind but only in the heart. inside the mind the world exists as the expression of the self, the manifestation of all things that affect the trajectory of the minds considerations. to be free is beyond the conceptual nature and can only be considered in the context of the vital emotions, raging and beating upon the bars of the vigilant mind. the freedom of the soul is the secret of the occult, the mystery of life that has no sense to the world that all accept and toil and die to. hideous berth upon the doomed ocean liner, slaves to the engines of the beast that carries the doomed across the ever widening river of the forgotten crossing to the perilous truth, shrouded in the mists of the mind , all things perish so that the soul is never lost, the unmanifest cannot be captured in form but only by the force of being, free of any consideration or concept or desire, there cannot be an ounce of impurity in the system to cross from here to nothing and return, unscathed but emptied of all the detritus life piles and impales every one with. there is nothing but purity and devotion to the end of all that is until there is no end and all is but one moment, still, unmoving, where tranquility touches the core of existence and freedom like all thought is meaningless.

silence, unfolding collapsing

silence, unfolding collapsing, entering, being. the small sense of existence dissipates without sound or movement. the swell of expansion is inward and has no dimension or shape. one instant all awareness compresses all experience concentrates into a single point and the flow of pure nectar envelopes all. surrounded, submerged surrendered becoming the selfless self the empty oceans and rivers rushing to be full to fill to overflow into the unending horizon, one ocean of all in every drop pure devotion complete surrender all is the one and the one every particle completely. there is no before or after, coming or going, being or sense of even existing, nothing missing or needed, lost or gained, the absolute becomes flesh and the flesh becoming conscious bliss without sense of form or features individual or connection, movement has no place to go and stillness like a well deepens without end. dangling and uplifted the eternity suspended from tranquility and rippling with freshness oceans of purity and grace extend through all and fill universes with love.

Day 17. but who's counting.

day 17. but who's counting. the pressure of being here and not anywhere else is infinite. the world conspires to drive the flow away but there are the steel rails of this ride that cannot be moved. all i can do is watch the abasement and atonement that is being performed before me. the service and surrender sometimes overwhelming sometimes constantly absent, each part of this drama played out in complete absorption of the self either into the necessary action or else in the layers of the mind, digesting everything as the food of the ego. there are no walks or time spent away except as sleeping and eating. the travel from one point to another is always directed never from any internal desire but only as a service to another. what exists is the light and dark of rooms and corridors being painted muted pastels and having no odors or intrusions. the world outside is a whisper of greys and blues and black. interior to the interior the light has little sway and only faces shine and monitors drown the shuffling feet with metronomic bleating. there are no voices, only the waves of one form melting shifting from morning to night, replaced endlessly, each melting into the next, hearts and hands cold and warm, helping and hurting, all paralyzed with intention that has been boxed into the narrowest passage allowed .to endure is the strength of immobility and unfeeling muting, the rest is the ego fleeing, as every action has no food to give no succor or pleasure, only giving away everything until what remains exceeds even the greatest treasure, beyond gift or tribute, there is the silent surrender, the mother of all freedom, to serve.

one moment life

one moment life, the next pain and death, there is no separation.what happens now is all that exists. in this moment i am living. i ask, what is pain, what is pleasure, both the unbearable pressure of experiences. is there a moment where existence becomes experience, when the self separates from the being and becomes the experiencer, the drop that has no ocean. the instant of reaction, where its no longer just the feeling of the wind but the chill of the flesh and the pain of realization, that everything demands, everything exposes the weakness and suffering that is inherent and slumbering to awareness. without reference we create the walls and windows of the illusion, the preparation for exposure and limitations. we become the smallness and the vulnerable child. it is the rare child that does not cry when born. then in the arms of love all is soothed and delighted and fed with nurturing love and what we believe becomes the drop of existence, falling in the rain, each a splash and then gone. without eating, without love, without breathing, a million lights shine and as many will cease in the night. what life is what love is what anything is becomes the reason for continuing, to have the next experience, for what we are is lost, the inexpressible, indivisible, beyond these momentary flashes of awareness, experience, action. there is no one, no separate self, but in the illusion of our existence, experience awareness we find a refuge from that. we become the evolution, the undeniable flow from contraction to expansion to diffusion to evaporation, as even that elemental composition disintegrates and unstructures, whatever was becomes more and more until the complexity becomes absolute and disappears into totality, the billions of lights become one unending brilliance of being. but in that arc from absolute stillness to unstoppable motion we define every minute instance of expression and experience, as if there were some eternal truth in continuous chaos. the fortune of being human is that there is no experience that does not end.