what’s it about
Love, love, love. It is all for love. The heavenly bits are bound in bleeding matrimony - cosmos, earth. Life cheaper than dust - new dust hardly produced, new life abounding... Yet to dust we return. To be eaten by the worms and the mycelia. To be caged in a wooden box. To be preached to in hell by the suffering servant.
I'm a lonely wandering soul. Stuck between waterless places. A dry tongue plastered to the mouth roof. “Come to me all who are weary.” That is me, but you hide yourself. I feel taunted and can respond only with deep exasperation. Belief is the universal placebo. I will not reduce you to that. If you are there, rip me to shreds for my unholiness. I may live out the dharma to participate knowingly in the karma. I may carry my cross to participate in the divine nature. I may bend to the tao to become like the master. I may. I do not have to. One mustn't do anything in the fullest sense. You are free to damn, drown, unchain, and honor. To seek, churn, hope, fake, and break. Your outcome is never guaranteed. At some point in your line of questioning, you will run out of rope. There is no sure thing. The sages have said this forever. What is faith for? What is worth faith? Can one touch faith and doubt together? Are they magnetic poles? An atom splitting machine? My flesh is torn and mind tired. I too am dramatic. Each moment an epic wrapped in dishonest words. I experience the moment, it is made present - a culmination of time past and semblance of time future. My emotions rise from the fray, my past self interpreting the moment, delivering bias and intuition, feeling and fervor, to my aching bones - all packaged with the same labeling. "To: A Repeating Pattern of Cells," "From: Another Repeating Pattern of Cells." A note on the box - "This is your heritage, wisdom, and mind. Treat with care. Or don't. It is not what is significant and will delude you." My end is my beginning. Convex and concave aspects of a curve. There is no true, full end. I see that now. Although that past being will one day no longer deliver packages.
What separates me from the self-harming, complaining gentleman in the corner that speaks to himself only and pretends to host a different life? I cannot see. I cannot see at all. Blind, yes, but at least not following the blind. Listening... Listening listening listening.. If I cannot use one sense I will use the other.. I will seek seek seek. Honestly, earnestly, whole-heartedly. No bit left behind. No pain large enough to block the steps.
“Re-examine all you have been told
in school or church or in any book,
Dismiss whatever insults your own soul;
And your very flesh shall be a great poem…”
Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass, 1855.