all is frame and conjecture of the truth
every slight phrase and comment is the shaping of reality
Simi: I fully comprehend that
Simi: All is on a spectrum of consciousness...
Simi: How evolved
Simi: And how diluted
yes and the passage from one frame to the next is limited
it must be created in the portal of aspiration
at all levels there must be a spark to ignite the fire
and that is loves tremendous force
its creates the spark and the fire
and the soul is riven with the experience of possibility
what simple thing is the light of love yet it changes entire worlds in days
sometimes i can hear the yearning just walking through the night
from dreamers and sleepers tossing and turning
the world is asleep and in their dreams are the stuff of truth and nightmares
Simi: Yessss
Simi: Absolutely
i no longer rest like that
the dreams are not bidden to me for i am the wakened even in repose
my dreams are the worlds of the dead the holocaust of the Mother
each light snuffed out as it passes the portal of the night
and a world goes black with the unwakened fear
chance is the coming of the indwelling being transformed
but the world is large and the number few yet here it seems so concentrate
what is the truth now that the supramental has descended
chance has become the reality and seeds sown are sprouted without effort
this light this sacred form seems in every eye transformed
for there is a new world dawning and i see its limpid eye opening
seeing for the first time the unreckoned truth
yet the dream is strong and the flesh weakened by the inactivity and nature of the mind
to hold even a candle in the wind of denial is strength unknown
for the forces see the coming and have no where to go
the lights of the world are spread thin but each touches the other
and the veil is lightened and lifts easily with the wind
if in one moment there is an opening and the light is shining
then the darkest heart can see the way out
this shell, this flesh has no memory or future, it plays its part and exits without complaint
but the soul has no place to go, no end to run to, this play is just a dance and the music never ends
what madness the endless beating of the heart and breathing of the lungs, when no air or blood are there
this life this mystery is the truth of pleasure and pain, the foundation of a sin of confusion and the tricks each actor knows
for the faces change but the soul remains the one that cannot be anything
Simi: I am just sitting here reading everything
but is forever waiting.
this world the point of concentration, the cauldron of desire becomes the fulcrum of the divine to lift the truth from the sorcerers stone and bring some tiny essence from the madness, some opening to the divine that was not before complete
yet how that can be or be done is yet a mystery and more it has no end or opening until the words are written to bring it forth
and what can be written that has not been said before and in truth there are no words possible
so play upon play upon unconscious play
the world is woven in the fabric of untold divinity and transposed deities, each a mirror of the one
yet nothing bring the sun closer to the night or the light further than the stars
yet wondrous be the creation this life this tiny world is all that matters and what is done here is the change of the soul and the evolution of the undying being
unconscious is the undying Brahman and conscious his creating force, yet once and for everything it is all in change and flux without end
love has come from the separation and it can never be stopped
never
the truth is the manifestation of this force and its power to transform even that which brought it into existence
awareness is becoming conscious of its emptiness because love has opened its heart
and what is love that even the heart of darkness is its slave
the promise of endless ending, completion perfection and destruction, the ultimate upheaval of all that is and in its end the promise of newness and delighted resurrection
each heart knows this cannot end yet it must or nothing will be destroyed
and with one swoop that which cannot be becomes and what was is not again and again as the new becomes the old and new again
there is the unpredictability of this life this separation that acts out the infinite in the individual
every day
i cast the form of the moment into the crucible of unformed expression and it becomes a living thing that goes its own way and i just follow and sweep up the pieces
and this i cannot do on an iphone
for one bludgeoning finger is to little a brush for this sized canvas
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