Leftovers
To become a skeptic, a cynic, a doubter, an agnostic, one becomes an adversary of delusion,
An antagonist to the fallacies of mythology, superstition, and other cultural assumptions.
The mind of the critical thinker is its own reflection of what is real, and what is not.
* * * *
What hope can there be for harmony in a world swirled and hurled asunder
By the exponentially accelerating technologies of death and mayhem.
War is peace in this Darwinian leap into the survival of the fittest.
And those who endure, those who abide the dystopian future,
Are not necessarily the stronger, or the more intelligent,
But those most adaptable to the pendulum of time.
* * * *
The idolatry of form has drawn many a mind throughout the rise of humankind.
How many whimsical notions have been fabricated across the world,
Faces we can see rather than the one and only we cannot.
* * * *
What is light? What is dark? What is good? What is evil?
What is right? What is wrong? What is agony? What is ecstasy?
And what is the impenetrable awareness permeating all things imagined?
* * * *
Likely not many are watching you, or thinking about you,
Near as much as your monkey-mind might choose to believe.
You are only the center of your imaginary version of the universe.
* * * *
Sophistication in any field of endeavor
Is a matter of how the given capacities and limitations
Double-double-toil-and-trouble their way into conscious awareness.
Who are the most skillful but the few-and-far-between giving their fullest attention.
* * * *
The scientific mind is ever observing,
Ever exploring everything in every way imaginable.
True science transcends all boundaries.
* * * *
Your only constraint is being locked up in the temporal body.
The indivisible youness you really are knows no bounds.
Only imagination binds itself to the given universe.
* * * *
We are all the center of our unique little dream; every conscious thing is.
None can be the same, no matter how diligent the effort,
And why even try? Why even bother?
* * * *
Consciousness is capable of anything imagination can conceive and physics allow.
It boils down to playing out the blueprint, the programming,
Of the given seed line as it sprouts into time.
* * * *
What is an orgasm but the mind’s most innate high,
A very present, very pleasurable detonation in the timeless now.
A disintegration, a dissolution, of any sense of self, of any sense of separation.
Is it any wonder our species gallops the edge of obsession about everything to do with it?
Sexuality is the wellspring, the underlying force, the fulcrum of human history.
Power, renown, prosperity, the creativity of art, science, technology,
All have come about as aphrodisiacs to its gratification.
And all of it the evolutionary outcome
Of the genomic ambition to abide evermore.
* * * *
So many faces come and gone in the rolodex of life.
So many moments spent together, so many things shared.
What happened to them all, what stories unfolded into destiny?
The things we can never know of our dreamtime are many and large.
* * * *
Every eye, a subjective filter.
Objectivity is the ruse of idealistic notion.
No matter how detached, how indifferent the endeavor,
It is ever seen through the personal coloring of the conditioned mind.
* * * *
What is so dysfunctional, so surreal, about the human species,
Is its obsession with what others think, and what others think about them.
Groupthink has been a mainstay of our survival in this dreamtime,
But its interminable absurdities are beyond measure.
* * * *
Existence creates many questions, answers to which often raise many more,
And on and on knowledge bounds into its fabricated future.
What is the parable of Adam and Eve
But the plucking of knowledge from the garden,
And then carrying on with whatever its imaginary whirl concocted,
Eventually swirling into the marvel and madness of these our so-called modern times.
* * * *
This universe, this world, was not created by meekness,
By fear, by hope, by political correctness, by any absurdity, whatsoever.
The vagaries of the human condition are but a hiccup in the unfolding eternal theater.
* * * *
Is the me you think you know, the me I think I am?
Of course not, nor would the visa-versa ever be bona fide, either.
We are all one-of-a-kind imaginary universes, each and every one at center stage,
All of it happening in a quantum sort-of-maybe indivisible way.
* * * *
Consciousness is an insatiable force.
Were it to heartily devour the entire universe,
Were it to experience absolutely everything imaginable,
It would not be enough, it would still yearn for more, more, more.
* * * *
Same old story in yet another tale.
The cast, the crew, the stage, has changed,
But the patterned narrative is very much the same.
* * * *
A great curiosity, a great absurdity, about this two-legged drama,
Is why so many are so concerned what others think or do.
What is all this judgment but a survival mechanism
Bred into being in the jungles of long ago.
Yay or nay, it is ever entangling.
* * * *
All concepts, whether of some god,
A horse, a chair, a rock, a star, or some abstract quantum formula,
Are born of limitation because they can never be more than formulations of temporal consciousness.
No sound will ever be more than a vibration, no perception will ever be tangible,
Including the you that you in mind-body believe so real.
It is all a dream born if imagination.
* * * *
Imagine all the life forms on this garden planet,
And realize that you are of the same clayness as each and every one.
Look out into the sea of stars, and discern the same.
All are cousins of the same source.
* * * *
Who contemplates?
Who perceives?
Who knows?
Who cares?
Who feels?
Who loves?
Who hates?
Who hopes?
Who believes?
Who does anything?
* * * *
Somewhere in time, somewhere in space,
Some mind first said it, first wrote it, first built it,
Different mind, same mind, all derived of the same essence.
* * * *
You are but a fleeting window in the seed principle’s theater of dreamtime.
Think what you will of its inexplicable mystery, you are but a player,
And all your conclusions, all your assumptions, mean nothing.
* * * *
Quantifying, measuring everything imaginable, what is the point, really?
Being ever-present with this inexplicable sojourn,
Now that is a challenge, indeed.
* * * *
Science and technology stand on the shoulders of all those who have come before.
Turtles all the way down, and all the way up, too, for as long as the dream plays out.
* * * *
Time and space is but a mortal fabrication of neuron trails and memory cells.
The nothing more, nothing less of quantum vapor playing the indivisible real.
* * * *
So many haranguing from some pulpit in their mind: ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that.’
All based on utterly absurd, often contradictory notions written thousands of years ago,
Warnings of a go-directly-to-hell naughty list kept by some Santa Claus up in the clouds.
Well, any defensive lineman worth his salt knows to shove back or sally around the block.
There is not any doctrine, any on-high authority, that means squat to those bent on discovery.
* * * *
Different geographies, different cultures, different languages, different livelihoods, different clothes,
Different foods, different sports, different creeds, different absurdities,
Different this, that, and the other thing,
Same monkey.
* * * *
And what would this inane world be like if we all respected each other,
If we all treated one another as we would ourselves choose to be treated?
Is the so-called Golden Rule anything more than an ideal, a soporific notion,
To which vanity only rarely allows more than lip service be paid.
* * * *
Revenge has a long memory,
And it is only through self-restraint
That it is not severely exacted at some point.
How many are fortunate that they have not endured
What others have contemplated with one apparatus or another.
* * * *
What curious thing how flesh can in one instance be so enticing,
And in another be only just a few clicks short of horrifying.
Everything abides in one slice of relativity or another.
Perception is all, and all must endure one way or another.
* * * *
Not even one moment in your entire existence has ever been more than a dream.
None of it has ever been truly real but for the ephemeral nothingness
That is as close to “reality” as this mystery can ever be.
* * * *
Human beings are absolutely no different
Than any other biological entities in this manifest realm,
And we will, each and every one of us, disincorporate the same as every other
In Mother Nature’s magically indifferent dream of time.
* * * *
So many interesting things to do in life
That are entirely satisfied by a spoonful of imagination,
The real thing often being far too out of reach,
Or too bothersome to bother doing.
* * * *
So many wandering about,
Regurgitating one blather or another,
When right smack dab in the middle of their mind
Is the most inexplicable mystery they could ever hope to discern.
* * * *
Time travel?
How can you cross something that does not exist
As anything more than an imaginary notion?
* * * *
As perfect as the word, the number, the note, the line, the hue, might be,
It is instantly but a perception forever caught in the amber of imagination.
* * * *
Everyone believes whatever falsehoods they want to believe,
Until doubt perhaps slowly sprouts in one cranny, one nook or another.
And from that moment on, who knows where the long and winding road will lead.
* * * *
The task is to discern the nature of heaven in the hell humankind has made of paradise.
There is no god, no devil, there is no good, no evil, there is only consciousness imagining all.
And you are really very much on your own in figuring it out in whatever way suits you.
* * * *
Words, numbers, notes, lines,
And other such conceptual intrigues
Are the endless playground of imagination.
They cavort with nothing to their heart’s content.
* * * *
What we call goodness is consciousness without ulterior motive.
What we call evil is consciousness distorted by perception
Into every imaginable contortion of self-absorption.
* * * *
The Seventh Day was much more a paradise
Than the human mind has fashioned in the Eighth.
And the Ninth is coming up to bat, the Tenth is on deck,
And what roster will play beyond that, only the mystery knows.
* * * *
To consciously be the light unto thy Self,
Is up to you, and you alone, to explore and discover.
An ever-present journey through a long and winding mind, to be sure.
* * * *
What need for worship, for piety, for virtue,
For belief, for faith, for dogma, for idolatry, for ritual,
Once you have discerned what you truly are is prior to all creation.
* * * *
So many distractions this manifest creation offers:
Tangible and intangible, in every ways and means imaginable.
But what is a Self to do when all become so passé,
When even watching it is bother.
* * *
The body may exist, the mind may think, but is it really you doing any of it?
Are you really any more than witness to the given nature-nurture?
Attached only to the mesmerizing churning of the senses,
And the innumerable vain notions they parlay?
* * * *
That which was never born has no measure.
It is an indivisible essence, a potency igniting all.
All discrimination is born of the miasma of imagination.
* * * *
We all seek out others who perceive the world the same,
And yet no one ever does, no one ever can,
Because it is just not possible
To transcend the aloneness within all.
* * * *
What is sex, what is an orgasm, but stimulation,
Friction, by your own hand or another’s.
Cloaked with every imaginable justification of mind,
But really nothing more than the most primal urge to procreate
Playing out the genetic lottery’s ultimately pointless pursuit of immortality.
* * * *
What is this phenomenon called life
But a collection of extremely vague notions,
To which a completely imagined self is so attached.
* * * *
What need to have some group, some herd, corroborate the obvious?
What need to teach, to illuminate, that which cannot be taught?
What need to pretend that which is only ever pretend?
* * * *
A bubble of awareness, nothing more, nothing less.
Naught but imagination coupled with the sensory feed,
Dressing it infinitesimal to infinite, as the given mind allows.
* * * *
Go to that state of solitude, that awareness before to time,
That eternal here-now prior to consciousness,
Where no other has never abided.
That placeless place,
The source code of creation.
* * * *
What is any history, any saga, any memoir, any narration,
But a set of partial perceptions of one mind or many,
Precisely asserted by one storyteller or another.
What really transpired any given here now
Is likely always a dubious assumption.
* * * *
Mind-altering substances can be teachers, guides, companions,
That aid the exploration of the relativity of consciousness,
And the inexplicable mystery from whence it arises,
Harmful only if they are misused and abused.
Moderation, equilibrium, equanimity, in all things.
* * * *
It is in consciousness that all heavens and hells reside.
In awareness, the origin of all things,
There is nothing
But the serenity of oblivion.
* * * *
The truth is equally within all things from great and small,
And only those who surrender to its beingness
Are free of imagination’s constraints.
* * * *
Time does not exist.
It never has, and never will.
It is entirely an invention of imagination,
And without the neural pathways fashioned by evolution,
Its presumption the dreamtime of creation would never have entertained.
* * * *
To abide in the timeless truth of this manifest reverie,
One must focus attention upon that which is prior to consciousness,
That momentary awareness ever prior to the me-myself-and-I of conscious design.
* * * *
A question for the scientist who harbors in any inquisitive mind,
Has a hypothesis to spare, and inclination for observation within and without:
Is creativity, is consciousness, enhanced by oxygen deprivation
Born of the many tensions born of suffering?
Is something so simple root cause to so much passion?
* * * *
You have more than most could ever even dream,
And still you cannot open that tight-fisted grip.
* * * *
Consciousness can never catch-up, much less overtake,
That which only presence of the timeless awareness knows.
* * * *
No point in creating another absurd dog and pony show
For the same choir that is always coming back for more.
* * * *
Into illusory weaving,
Samsara entices you again and again.
Such an unwavering, tenacious opponent, indeed, indeed.
* * * *
It is not your body, nor is it my body.
It is merely a temporal container from which to witness
Yet another mortal dream play its Self out.
* * * *
Your universe disappears and reappears every moment
In the wake of imagination’s ever-present dissolution.
* * * *
The only way you fabricate the perception of past or future
It through the eternal, very present nowness of awareness.
* * * *
Awareness is the constant in the grand experiment.
Everything else, the variables of imaginary notion.
* * * *
What is this hypothesis called “All” but each and every one
The same nothingness dreaming an individual play of time.
* * * *
You are the singularity, the unicity, the oneness.
All sense of duality is delusion spawned by illusion.
* * * *
Fitting into one mindset or another, why, really?
What is this fear of standing alone, absolutely free?
* * * *
Limitation is splintered in every way imaginable.
Perfection has no bounds.
* * * *
All creation stories are but plays of imagination
Speculating realities that have never,
Nor will ever exist.
* * * *
The ephemeral nothingness of awareness is ever the same.
Only consciousness, only imagination, is ever-changing.
* * * *
No one can compel anyone to think, to believe, anything
To which they do not, wittingly or unwittingly, collude.
* * * *
Imagine if everyone could clearly discern the ultimate.
How different would this garden dustball really be?
* * * *
If there is a god or gods,
There is inevitably dogma, idolatry,
And every vain gradation of absurdity imaginable.
* * * *
A long cultural tradition means little
If you have gleaned nothing more from it
Than a handful of obtuse ethnocentric notions.
* * * *
Everything is timelessly, indivisibly connected.
All dualistic perceptions are entirely imagined.
* * * *
You are That which many call god, creating this vast dream,
Each vessel absolutely unique, yet through it all,
There is truly not even one other.
* * * *
Instead of being grateful for what you have,
You hunger for more this, more that.
Consciousness is insatiable.
* * * *
Words, expansive as they may be, will never be more
Than the contortions of that born in the dream of time.
* * * *
A most curious thing how soon we all become hoarders
Of more far more memories than we can ever remember.
* * * *
From the ultimate quantum still-point,
How meaningless all sounds given concept,
All motions given flourish, all dreams given reality.
* * * *
The newborn is pure awareness,
Lost in the sensory play, no direction known.
And then the winds of space and time begin their sculpting.
* * * *
You are in the body, but not of it.
You are the awareness prior to all fabrications of consciousness.
Be here now.
* * * *
There is no need to believe god when you are god.
No need to believe in anything, really.
Just being is enough.
* * * *
Between the nowness of eternity and the dream of mind,
‘Tis a ceaseless in and out … in and out … in and out …
* * * *
The brain stem, the original evolution of the mind,
Is as in harmony with the primal awareness,
As any point of consciousness can be.
* * * *
Gone, gone, gone, so quickly gone,
And only the glimmering notions of memory
To keep you believing anything ever really happened.
* * * *
A quantum dream of awareness,
Which in consciousness must be endured
For whatever time the given body and mind allow.
* * * *
How can the infinite ocean know its ultimate nature
But through the imaginary sagas of it countless drops.
* * * *
If you know your Self,
And are your own steadfast friend,
Why would you ever need an imaginary one?
* * * *
Human silliness might be truly depressing
If it were not laced with so much absurdity.
* * * *
Everything is of one patterning or another.
To do anything outside that patterning
Requires conscious deliberation.
* * * *
That which you recall is that to which you cling.
What a weight all the mind’s baggage
In the perception of now.
* * * *
Because we can discern neither beginning nor end,
We postulate infinity, and even that is speculation.
* * * *
It all boils down to this singular existential moment,
Forever stage to the dreaming of consciousness
Playing out whatever imagination divines.
* * * *
If humankind were as great as it likes to believe it is,
Would it have made such an abysmal mess of things?
* * * *
Is there anything in this mad monkey absurdity of a world
That does not subscribe to one form of vanity or another?
* * * *
The challenge for humankind is less about what to believe,
Than it is to examine the instinctual drive to believe itself.
* * * *
Why would anyone ever believe some deity
Would ever be bound by any human concoction?
* * * *
There are those who lead cults, those who blindly follow,
And those who stand back aloof, and wonder at the absurdity.
* * * *
Drawn to existence, drawn to oblivion, you ache for both
In the ever-flowing currents of time born of imagination.
* * * *
Consciousness battles a never-ending war over differences
That do not really matter in any way, any shape, any form.
* * * *
Why care about any of it? Why not care for all of it?
So many choices in the momentary mist of dreamtime.
All real and unreal in the perception of any given mind.
* * * *
What can anyone hold onto but a collection of imaginary notions
Created by the frame of reference founded upon one’s conditioning?
* * * *
God and Satan, heaven and hell, have always been dogmatic absurdity.
Collusions of human imagination, none of it ultimately real or true.
* * * *
When you say “I Am,”
Is it with or without the body,
And all its imagined history in mind?
* * * *
There can be no sense of time
Without the presence of awareness
Within which to imagine all things different.
* * * *
Unconditional acceptance of this grand dream as it is,
With all its light and dark, its good and evil,
Is about as loving as it gets.
* * * *
Everyone and everything and everything between the same awareness,
Waking up to whatever reality the patterned consciousness
Of the given nature-nurture ordains.
* * * *
Each of us plays out the day-to-day in our own unique Shakespearian fashion,
And within the ever-present consciousness, within the timeless awareness,
The quantum indivisibility, call it what you will, witnesses all as one.
* * * *
Chances are a dense mind will not perceive the inexplicable,
No matter how adroit and lucid and profound the exposition.
* * * *
Consciousness usurps awareness in every way, ever calling itself real.
Death tends to put a damper on this vain little pastime, ergo, tradition.
* * * *
Chances are the who-what-where-when-why-how imagine you are.
Is not the who-what-where-when-why-how you really are.
Somewhat mutually-exclusive, actually.
* * * *
Are those who believe they are the definition of rationality
Really any more sane than those who discern they are not?
* * * *
All meaning and purpose is born of imagination.
All very temporal, very brief persuasions, at best.
* * * *
So many wandering about
Really believing their brief existence important,
More than just an eensy-weensy particle of dust in the grand cosmos.
* * * *
Duality exists only in the dreamtime of consciousness.
Reality is singular through and through for all eternity.
* * * *
Be the awareness witnessing, and be free.
Be the awareness witnessing through the filter of consciousness,
And be bound by whatever whimsies it partakes.
* * * *
It is consciousness that presides over the passions.
Awareness is tranquility through and through.
* * * *
The bottom line to all existence
Boils down to DNA’s striving in every way imaginable
To continue for as long as possible.
* * * *
Whether words, numbers, notes, or any other device born of conscious design,
All concepts have their capacities and limitations,
Their raison d'être.
* * * *
In any game, rules are manipulated,
Stretched, ignored, penetrated, muddied,
And colored in every shade of gray imaginable.
* * * *
What is birth? What is death?
And what is this surreal dream between?
Can anyone more than churn out endless speculation?
* * * *
How is it that those who believe they are the creations of god
Do not in the same breath wonder where that god came from?
* * * *
Think you are ready for what is coming?
You will, hopefully, not have to find out.
* * * *
So much absurdity to wade through in this tarnished world,
And to what end ever the insoluble question.
Live and learn, die anyway.
* * * *
Meaning and purpose are nothing more than vain notions
To which self-consciousness has subscribed since its origin.
* * * *
Whatever words are used to label the mind’s perceptions,
It is the nameless actuality that must be daily endured.
* * * *
Yes, there is no doubt God created this infinite universe,
So that so many could be unimaginably stupid about it.
* * * *
Yet another case of “Believe what I say, do what I say, not what I do.”
Hypocrisy, an innate facet of the monkey-mind’s self-protective shield.
* * * *
Across the world, across time, Mad Hatters babbling resolutely
About every sort of nonsense, about every sort of absurdity,
To what end at best the duration of a Cheshire Cat's grin.
* * * *
What do geezers and crones have left to be vain about
Without a fair dollop of barefaced delusion
At the helm of wishful thinking.
* * * *
What is death but the end of a dream of existence in one container or another,
A structure the ultimate you never really more than donned for a brief while.
* * * *
More of the same old indelibly, pathetically wearisome human bullshit.
Some may be able to play it in some delusionary cheerleader mode,
But we who do not abide blinders, must, alas, see it for what it is.
* * * *
What is the known universe but whatever you consider it to be?
Imagination, ephemeral wind that it is, is as narrow as it is wide.
* * * *
Sanity, rationality, stability, soundness, lucidity, reason, poise, steadiness,
Is relative to the facet you are playing in the crest-jewel of consciousness.
* * * *
Touch your nose down to your toes,
But for imagination’s assertion,
Does it really feel like you?
* * * *
Does thinking something ever really make it so?
Is imagination so powerful as to make anything more than it can ever be?
Is cotton candy, puffy as it appears, ever more than spun sugar?
* * * *
Far more arrogant to assert something you cannot possibly know
Than it is to simply not pretending anything you know you do not.
* * * *
Nothing forward, nothing behind, nothing when, nothing where,
The wake of time nothing more than the imagination of mind.
* * * *
What is courage but a composed indifference to personal safety,
A state of mind caught in even the bitterest wave of the given moment.
Existence is, after all is said and done, only a body, only a life, only a dream.
* * * *
Stream of consciousness, stream of imagination, stream of mind.
Call it what you will, it is the same eternal mystery
Playing out however it will.
* * * *
What is any authentic scientist but one who feels beckoned
To explore his fleeting patch of dreamtime to an nth degree.
* * * *
As infinite on the outside as it is infinitesimal within,
And not even a point, a line, a plane, an object, between.
The imagination of consciousness is the origin of all creation.
* * * *
To discern the eternal life, the myriad binds of mind must be undone.
Cut the Gordian Knot of consciousness to discern the freest state of mind.
* * * *
Live and learn, die anyway,
Full of whatever has been gleaned from the worldly universe,
All lost and gone forever as memories languish,
And the final breath wheezes away.
* * * *
Here we all are, each and every moment,
All playing our imaginary selves,
All alone, all together.
* * * *
Every age has it conscious witnesses whose artistic endeavors
Leave behind many creations in thought and deed
For as long as subsequent times abide.
Some quickly disappear,
And others become great burdens.
* * * *
The awareness upon and within which consciousness skates
Is an unfathomable mystery prior to and beyond all measure.
* * * *
That any given windfall or disaster is construed as some deity’s will
Shows the depth of absurdity to which the monkey-mind is capable.
* * * *
In the ever-streaming course of human events,
Time tends to do more things with a lifetime of creation,
Than the lifetime itself could ever hope to attain.
* * * *
What a cruel, absurd joke it is
To be recognized or acclaimed for anything.
The intrinsic is the highest order.
* * * *
Just because someone is foolish enough to promise the future
Does not mean you have to be foolish enough to believe it.
* * * *
Imagination imagines itself real, but it is not.
It never has been, and will never be,
More than figments of mind.
* * * *
Once you quiet, once you calm, once you still, all the many notions,
What is there but awareness free of any sense of other.
Anything less is just singularity knocking.
* * * *
Sometimes great genius is noted in its own time, sometime later, often not at all.
The whimsy of consciousness is unending in the passage of time born of mind.
* * * *
What is birth but the beginning of a dream, and death its end.
And ever the great and powerful Quantum of Oz
Before and after and between.
* * * *
What does it take to waylay the conditioning
But the momentary attentiveness called by some eternal life,
That which is prior to the mind-body, and the dream to which it is so attached.
* * * *
The horror, the absurdity, the futility.
What world is worth saving were it even possible?
What can any detainee in this madcap monkey-mind asylum do
But find what serenity and contentment they can in the empty squalor of it all.
* * * *
Show me some supreme being that does not include you,
And I will call it just another hollow absurdity born of mind,
Another idol to whom one tithing or another is likely due.
* * * *
The Way is simplicity its Self.
Only you perceive it complex.
* * * *
To be at peace, to be immersed in the ultimate awareness
That this mortal dreamtime offers in each and every streaming moment,
What greater quality of mind could there be than the intangible brass ring of eternal life?
* * * *
Martyrdom tends to raise the departed to far loftier heights
Than their intrigues could have ever dared hope,
Had they remained mere mortals.
* * * *
Were you not so attached to all the perceptions about your imaginary cosmos,
Of the given existence it could doubtless be asked: Did it ever really happen?
* * * *
Listen to all the birds, and realize their little brains,
Doubling-doubling-toiling-and-troubling in bird consciousness,
Are in actuality not all that different than your own.
We are all cousins of the same puddle,
* * * *
To the ultimate witnessing, the awareness prior to all dimensions,
It has never even once mattered who-what-where-when-why-how about anything.
That has always been, will ever be, for the dream of consciousness to sort out, however it imagines.
* * * *
You are the same awareness, the same oneness,
That has witnessed all eternity and its countless creations.
Only imagination lost in vanity pretends otherwise.
* * * *
What bounds can there be in the ultimate that you truly are?
We are all playing out the conditioning of the given mind-body
In this ever-changing dreamtime born of sensory perception.
* * * *
There is an absoluteness,
In which neither within nor without,
Nor any other distinction of consciousness exist.
* * * *
The many memes of groupthink are cementing consciousness
Into a wide range of extraordinarily contorted assumptions,
Baseball caps, cowboy hats, chewing tobacco, not excluded.
* * * *
You cannot save anybody, much less everybody.
The dream has been doomed from the get-go.
* * * *
Everyone has their own sojourn
To either meander wherever they feel beckoned,
Or blow whatever direction the tempests of dreamtime sends them.
* * * *
So many so caught up in one dogma or another – so conditioned, so habituated, so brainwashed –
That it would likely never occur to them they are not at all free and clear in their imaginary prison.
* * * *
What is any thought but the drip-drip of consciousness
Coming and going, condensing and evaporating,
As does the ephemeral vapor of any cloud.
* * * *
For anyone perceptive enough to take notice,
The Yellow-Brick-Road serendipities it has taken
To reach this here-now are long-and-winding, indeed.
* * * *
Approaching it all as nothing
Instead of the something the senses deceive you into believing,
That is the key for those born to see.
* * * *
Awareness is simply awareness, without any attributes, whatsoever.
It is only consciousness which conceives every variety of distraction.
* * * *
What need to believe in anything, really,
Once the eternal beingnesss of awareness
Resumes its default position at the helm.
* * * *
What universe do you perceive but the one you project
Through the frame of reference you imagine yourself to be.
* * * *
All sense of time, all memory, even of just a moment ago, is unreal,
Naught but a figment of imaginary duplicity,
A lie unto thy Self.
* * * *
The facelessness through which all perceive their universe
Draws many a Narcissus to one reflective pool or another.
* * * *
Pass what may, the mortal conclusion is at some point assured.
The veil cloaking the sensory mind is but a momentary dream.
* * * *
Is any religion, any belief system, really any more than contrived philosophy
Double-double-toiled-and-troubled-fire-burned-and-cauldron-bubbled?
* * * *
If everyone stayed the dogma of their ever-wagging tongues,
We would all be quite equal in our little dreamtime worlds.
* * * *
There is no authority, much less a higher one.
To say you are author of your consciousness is as close as it gets,
And then only for the briefest of temporal whiles.
* * * *
What is history but the recycling of monkey-mind patterns bred in the jungles of long ago,
Regurgitated daily with new permutations and technologies seasoning the feast of dreamtime.
* * * *
What more could there possibly be than this ever-present existential moment?
All else is nothing more than the smoke and mirrors of every imaginable distraction.
* * * *
Imagination is bound only by the limits of any given dimension,
That set by the quantum mechanics regulating the groundwork.
* * * *
The world, the universe you have been interacting with all your so-called life,
Is all in your head, an ephemeral dreamtime entirely imagined from the get-go.
* * * *
Why so many feel such inclination to shackle others in some sort of dogmatic prison
Is the story of power, fame, and fortune, of greed, of every imaginable pleasure,
Playing out the same patterns over and over and over like a broken record.
* * * *
The cosmos is rumored by many thinkers
To have begun infinitesimally small indeed.
Such is the nature of all things imagined.
* * * *
How astounding all the creativity that humankind has wrought,
And to what happy-sad endgame will it take us before it is over?
* * * *
Not everyone wants to exist in this world or any other.
What is suicide but someone saying they are no longer interested
In the hullabaloo of their imaginary version of the world.
* * * *
You are not, have never been, will never be,
The you that you imagine your dream to be.
* * * *
Nature-nurture is a fluid dance
Between mind-body and the winds of time,
Together weaving a dream of existence unlike any other.
* * * *
What you imagine you are is quantum stardust.
What you really are is far older, far younger,
Than anything that can ever be conceived.
* * * *
Speculation is not truth.
It is all speculation.
* * * *
As touchy-feely as it ever seems, it is but a dream,
In truth, no different than one in the depths of sleep.
* * * *
The play of the body-mind
Is but a three-dimensional dream
For you to alone witness,
Nothing more.
* * * *
The mystery spawned you,
And you created a vast universe,
A partnership of senses and imagination.
* * * *
You are the field flowering
In every sensory form imaginable,
All together playing, dancing out Eden’s fate.
* * * *
There must invariably be conscious witnesses
Wherever, whenever the original nature
Has manifested consciousness.
* * * *
Suffering is the consequence
Of identification with the mind and body.
In truth, you are the awareness
Prior to consciousness.
* * * *
The universe is a vast matrix
In which all things dance
In every manner imaginable
Within the limits of the paradigm.
* * * *
Humanity has imagined so many possible futures.
But which will time’s continuum actually harvest?
* * * *
It is all the vain, mortal assumptions
That continue pulling you back
Into this imaginary dream.
* * * *
The sensory play is spontaneously created
Through the mystery of consciousness
To witness an infinity of dreams.
Thou art a drop of That I Am.
How could this not be the truth?
* * * *
It is not some other who defines you.
It is your own imaginary musing
That creates all thoughts,
Both good and ill.
* * * *
Consciousness will play out
As consciousness will play out.
That I Am is unconcerned.
* * * *
The consequences of the many choices we made, or were made for us,
Shape each and every existence, each and every mind, in ways beyond counting.
Causes spin into effects spin into causes spin into effects spin into …
And on and on the finite play of human consciousness
Swirls and whirls and slices and dices,
A paradigm unto its Self.
* * * *
To be as a child is to return to that indivisible state of pure, eternal awareness,
Prior to the smoke-ridden consciousness to which time requires subscription.
* * * *
If all is that which is truly godness, then what is good, what is evil,
But an alliance between consciousness and its Self.
And you, the source, the witness,
Just pop in who, what, where, when, why, how, you please.
* * * *
If you always do your best, if you always strive in a mindset of quality, of excellence, of virtue,
Then succeeding or failing is only of cursory consequence, a relatively negligible detail.
Process is all, and goals merely imaginary pauses along the eternal journey.
* * * *
You are that which is mystery, that which is unknowable, that which is eternal,
That which is prior to all attributes, all properties, all characteristics, all arrangements,
That which is prior to all the divisions, all the dualities, all the contrasts, born of consciousness.
* * * *
All groups, all cultures, since the origin of language,
Have used their natural environment to communicate their world.
The sun, the moon, the planets, the stars, the weather, the geographical features,
The myriad fellow creatures from great to small, all play parts in every mythological paradigm.
In these our modern times, we use our own creations to decipher the universe about us.
Technologies, politics, religion, business, media, personalities, ad infinitum.
Every conceivable mind-made, artificial, contrived invention
Has all but usurped the relationship with nature.
The rules of the game are ever the same,
But ignorance leaves us deaf and blind and dumb
To the one and only reality that all creation is eternally interwoven
At such an indivisible level as to make any part absolutely inseparable from anything else.
Imagination, and all its fabricated notions, all its dualistic concoctions,
May believe it can control this biosphere, this cosmos,
But it cannot make-believe for long,
Much less forever.
* * * *
From the unassailable inner eye of the one witness,
Prior to consciousness, unmoving, uncommitted, indivisible, all-seeing,
What is there to crave, what is there to consume, really, but sensations of the mind and body,
That ephemerally pass ever-changing from one streaming moment to the next.
Nothing more than smoke drifting through the awareness,
Like clouds moving across in the sky.
* * * *
To live fully in the moment requires that every moment be immediately perceived and released.
Life eternal is an ephemeral quality of mind, a state of unconditional detachment,
In which the you that is the timeless awareness prior to consciousness
Observes without giving weight to the incessant vanities
Of the fictional me-myself-and-I that you imagine your Self to be.
* * * *
Perfect detachment is a state of stillness, of pure awareness,
Prior to consciousness and its ceaseless state of consumption.
* * * *
Though all that is, is of the totality of the great quantum,
Few are drawn to discern the unborn-undying state.
Many are called, few are chosen, fewer still swallow the red pill.
And why would anyone ever choose to endure this inquiry into the unknown.
The hollowness of ignorance, of believing your universe authentic, is its own form of bliss.
Alas in that way-back-when, that you could not help but notice something askew,
That you could not help but ask that first question, take that first step.
Red pill, blue pill, was there ever really-truly any choice?
* * * *
As long as you believe it all real and true,
You will enjoy, you will suffer, the ceaseless passions of existence.
The timeless, ubiquitous, prior-to-consciousness state
Is a tranquil sea abiding neither.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how is one who enjoys?
Who-what-where-when-why-how is the one who suffers?
Imagination is indifferent to the agonies and ecstasies it inspires
In the ubiquitous quantum sea through which it larks.
* * * *
Suspension of rational thought,
For hope, for belief, for faith, for superstition, for idolatry, for dogma,
How is that even remotely possible?
* * * *
Thought is the stagnancy in which the mind harbors the notion of existence.
Only in awareness is the quantum essence playing at the cutting edge of dreamtime.
Thought is death, awareness, life eternal; the conceptions of consciousness merely vibration,
Waves crashing upon neuron shoals, naught but imagination confabulating sensory perception real.
* * * *
Nobody can ever know what you have gone through, what you have experienced,
What you have perceived, what you have endured, in your trail of agony and ecstasy.
Nor can you more than guess at any other’s version of their world, their universe.
We are all as alone together as ships passing in some nebulous moonlit night,
Only as known as any given insight, any frame of reference, might allow.
* * * *
Where is any god, any deity, but in the innate primal recesses of imagination’s origin,
And its need for there to be some meaning and purpose for this inexplicable existence,
As if the inexplicable existence, the existential fray, is in itself not raison d'être enough.
* * * *
All identity, all identification, is nothing more
Than the wind of imagination playing impromptu make-believe.
And when every mind is doing it, it becomes a synergistic collusion we brand humanity.
Nothing more than confabulated delusion from the illusory get-go.
* * * *
A mystery far too incomprehensible, far too enigmatic, far too ambiguous,
To ever more than nibble, scratch, plumb, and ponder.
All any can really do is be it,
As the corollary of dreamtime allows.
* * * *
Concoctions of sweet, of sour, of salty, of bitter, of umami,
All built of the same quantum mystery, all dancing upon the quantum tongue.
Each of the five sensory organs – eyes, ears, nose, tongue, skin – and the brain to which they link,
Are wormholes to their conditional, their arbitrary, their temporal, rendering of a universe.
You daily travel time, you daily travel space, you daily wander, in the dream of mind.
* * * *
There is truly only this ethereal moment
Which none can never really touch or grasp,
Only perceive through and imagine happened,
Play out whatever assumptions the sensory-mind,
Through its filters of conditioning, perchance gleaned.
* * * *
Regarding the so-called supreme being worshipped by many and known as God:
For being an absentee landlord, and very dubious even at that,
He/she/it sure gets a lot of credit for things
To which only assumption and hope give weight.
* * * *
There are some things for which there can be no proof,
Some things that are not subject to the finite boundaries of mind,
Some things for which any answers are too large or too small for any question.
Some things that must remain forever unknown to the ceaseless conjectures of imagination.
So it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
* * * *
Walk through it as you would a dream, detached observer, ethereal witness.
Inscrutable, enigmatic, unfathomable, mysterious, impenetrable, unreadable, unknowable,
Indecipherable, inexplicable, incomprehensible, sphinxlike,
Yet transparent all the while.
* * * *
Each of us with our own unique universe, each of us with our own unique world view,
Each of us with our own unique set, our own unique frame of reference, that we all deem normal,
Each of us perceiving through the untold filters of our time-bound nature-nurture matrix,
Each of us forever here now, forever absolute, forever indivisible, forever alone.
* * * *
Where do you think your wit comes from if not the ever-present, indivisible, quantum essence?
Of course there is intelligent design at the helm of this inexplicable mystery.
And of course it is indivisibly you, and you indivisibly it.
There is nothing to get all vain about,
Because everyone and everything else is, too.
All notion of duality is but delusion of the sensory mind.
* * * *
What universe does a bat perceive?
A tiger? A dolphin? A bird? A cockroach? A tree? A flower?
Surely, you are not so self-absorbed as to believe it is ever, can ever, be the same as yours?
* * * *
A garden world chock-full of two-leggeds,
Many believing they are the pinnacles of normal,
All judging their naughty-nice translation from on high.
Who can ever measure up for long, if at all?
* * * *
Awareness is the eternal purity, the eternal clarity, of all dreamtimes.
The silky-smooth elixir, the cosmic brew of those rare few
Called to discern, to witness, the only reality.
Source to all, source to none.
* * * *
Human consciousness is really nothing more than imagination
Playing an eternal game of hide and seek with its imaginary self.
* * * *
All your busy-ness convinces you that you exist, that you are truly living,
But are you really any more than yet another persona,
Destined to be quickly forgotten
In the human paradigm’s fleeting dreamtime.
* * * *
Exploring existence, exploring reality,
Why would anyone in their right mind
Give themselves over to such absurdity?
* * * *
Every mind a solitary journey, a mortal epic in the dream of time.
The challenge is getting past the enticing lure of loneliness,
And clearly discerning the unfathomable aloneness.
* * * *
Mind and body, and the world, the universe, they create,
Are a laboratory in which we are all observers
Exploring whatever we imagine.
* * * *
The senses invoke the make-believe of time, but without them where would you be?
What happens to a mind evolved in time when locked completely alone in a dark, still chamber?
Who can long abide sensory deprivation without tumbling into unutterable madness?
* * * *
If you hope to withstand the harsh winds of the world,
Cherish and nurture and share the given innocence.
It is always there if you will the time to discern it.
* * * *
Lives ripple through all the lives they meet: friend, acquaintance, foe …
And through all the lives they meet: friend, acquaintance, foe …
And through all the lives they meet … And through …
For as long as memory holds fast against the tides of eternity.
* * * *
Do not for even a second believe your ancestors, even way, way back when,
Were any less intelligent just because their tool-making and other abilities
Had not achieved the ever-expanding bubble of these-our-modern-times.
That is a step-by-step evolutionary process, as is any creative enterprise.
* * * *
Awareness is both the least and greatest common denominator.
The underpinning of consciousness, of all things known and unknown.
The quantum indivisibility through which duality cavorts the mortal ground.
* * * *
Good and evil are the concoctions of consciousness,
Of imagination, of the mind born of time.
The garden itself is blameless.
* * * *
The matrix universe, an unfathomable quantum sea, swirls on and on and on,
Oblivious to cause and effect, to consequence, to destiny,
To any and all notions born of mind.
Time and space are but figments of imagination,
Inspired by the senses in the processor to which they are wired.
* * * *
That you existed even a moment ago, or will even a moment hence,
Is nothing more than imaginary, illusory, delusional, notion.
This moment, this here now, is the one and only reality,
And no thought can infiltrate its timeless nature.
All consciousness can do, can pretend to do,
Is play out its make-believe, its dream of time,
In whatever way the patternings, the memes allow.
* * * *
The awareness you truly are is but eternal witness
Bound in one form or another, trapped in one patterning or another,
For as long as there is a manifest theater, a matrix, for dreams of consciousness to wander.
The inexplicable universe is but a quantum playground in which you will act out
Whatever agonies and ecstasies the given patterning allocates.
There is no escape; you are a captive of time.
Enjoy or suffer; attitude is all.
* * * *
Only the limitations of the senses persuade you, convince you,
Condition you, mesmerize you, hypnotize you, blind you,
Into believing you are at all separate from anything.
* * * *
The other is but an apparition in your mind, an imaginary presence that does not really exist,
But is always upon your shoulder: watching, advocating, imposing, judging,
Your every thought, your every action, your every everything.
To discern there truly is no other, that you are in reality all alone,
Is an insight few have the wit, the strength, the audacity, to ascertain.
* * * *
How fiercely many a mind does slash and tear and scratch and gnaw its imaginary self.
Conquering the universe, building great empires, saving any and all,
Are much simpler than calming the inner beast.
* * * *
The fruit of the garden is really nothing more
Than imagination unleashed upon its own creation.
Not banishment as much as self-imposed exile.
* * * *
The world is changed. You can feel it in the water.
You can feel it in the earth. You can smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.
All bell curves collapse, and where will you and yours be when the dominos really begin falling?
If you have not already begun taking steps, it is time to think hard, prepare strong,
For a when-shit-hits-the-fan rough road in the times rapidly unfolding.
Batten down the hatches, lock and load, watch and wait.
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
May sound trite, but it be true.
* * * *
That destiny, that fate, that kismet, that karma, you vainly believe you somehow just changed,
Well, friend, understand that destiny is really nothing more than the result,
The synergy of all the choices, of all the consequences,
That rippled in thought and deed.
Nothing uncanny or supernatural about it.
* * * *
All combined, the many-faced other has thought everything of you,
And you, in many times, have thought everything of them.
And what matter, really, once it is discerned
That you are every other, and every other is you.
The many differences are but the theater of dreamtime.
* * * *
What if the Messiah that comes down from on-high to save you
Is not even close to what you truly believed s/he would-could-should be?
What will you do then, Faithful Pilgrim? Keep waiting, keep praying, keep hoping?
Or perchance awaken to the reality is that any saving is in the realization of what you truly are.
Yes, you are immortal, once you discern the paradoxes and ironies
Within and without all things manifest,
And that heavens and hells are only states of mind.
* * * *
What is existence but oblivion wandering consciousness,
And non-existence, oblivion non-wandering unconsciousness.
The mystery’s definitive on/off state, the byte of life, so to speak.
* * * *
To the indivisibility, a gazillion gazillion universes
Simultaneously transpire in one gazillionth gazillionth of an instant.
You are that, I am that, we are all that, no matter the attributes, no matter the contrasts,
Imagined by consciousness in any space, in any time, in any dimension.
* * * *
The bubble of consciousness in which the awareness you are resides,
Is nothing more than an imaginary invention, the convoluted consequence,
Of insatiable desire and its every moment tango with the abiding fear of not being.
* * * *
One must somehow realize a certain sense of irony and paradox,
A certain shade of doubt, of disbelief, of qualm, to see at all clearly.
* * * *
The streaming dreaming of consciousness sometimes enjoys, sometimes endures,
Its ceaseless jabbering, its mesmerized affirmation of all things manifest.
A quantum universe playing real in the rainbow of imagination.
* * * *
You cannot do what you cannot do,
And you likely have difficulty not doing what you can.
You are your capacities, you are your limitations, in this relatively brief dream of time.
Do not hesitate to investigate all things as thoroughly as inclination allows.
What greater regret can there be, than a stone left unturned?
* * * *
Very obvious, very clear, very true, to the relatively few.
And to the many others: blindness, miasma, illusion, delusion.
Many may be called, but few are chosen, and fewer still volunteer.
* * * *
There have been billions of dreamtimes in the evolving monkey-mind,
As have there been in every genomic line across every time,
In this Gaia-induced musing of the quantum kind.
* * * *
What desire, what fear, what confabulation of mind,
Can ever touch that which is untouchable by naught but imagination,
And then … and then … and then … only in imagination’s whirling mind-bound reel.
* * * *
Pure observation without measurement, pure awareness without movement,
Without ripple, without wake, without time, without space,
Is not that the highest form of science?
Is not that the way to discern the reality of the eternal
Within and without the within and without that has never really existed?
* * * *
Believing you know is but a false security to which most minds cling.
To a be as a child, alone and free; to be this instant, unborn and undying;
Is to be the mind realigned with the eternal moment and its inherent insecurity.
* * * *
The religious mind lumps the great unknowable into a concept called God,
And then dreads and worships and dogmatizes the idolatry that comes to mind.
What is the point of mind gorp based entirely on arbitrary, dualistic imagination?
* * * *
What is ego but the fear, the dread, the post-traumatic stress disorder,
The self-protective veneer, the fortress keep in our imaginary fiefdom,
* * * *
What is this deity so many fear and worship and call God by one name or another?
Is it a he, a she, an it, a not-it? Is it everything, anything, nothing?
Is it any more or less a figment of imagination
Than you or anyone else?
* * * *
The only difference between any you and me is a different set of eyes,
Wired into a different central processing unit, programed with a different frame of reference,
Wandering different matrices born of imagination: all alone, together.
We call it life, existence, but what is it, really?
* * * *
Consciousness weaves into concept
An exalted perfection that can never be.
The horse that is but an imaginary conjuring,
Is a horse that never was, a horse that will never be.
* * * *
What is natural selection?
An evolution of sexual discrimination?
The attraction of likes? The loathing of dislikes?
Of intellect? Of whim? Of spontaneity? Of happenstance?
Of brawn? Of beauty? Of claw and fang? Of stone? Of wood? Of steel?
Of alliance? Of intrigue? Of deception? Of tyranny?
Of irony? Of paradox? Of absurdity?
All of the above, and more.
* * * *
An itsy-bitsy bit of nothingness becomes and itsy-bitsy quantum
Becomes an itsy-bitsy molecule becomes an itsy-bitsy form become an itsy-bitsy life form
Becomes an itsy-bitsy fabrication of imagination, of comprehension,
That one day fathoms the nothingness,
The awareness, it is, has ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
It is perchance time for those rare few who are truly done with the world, truly complete,
Those rare few who are content to artlessly be the most essential timeless state,
To let go of mind, to return to that which is prior to consciousness,
To that awareness which is Eden’s greatest potential.
* * * *
What is this mystery but pure awareness, pure intelligence,
Playing out every potential, every possibility it aspires to manifest,
To dream in whatever dimension its infinite dynamic ordains.
* * * *
It is not about belief, it not about idolatry, it is not about groupthink, it not about dogma,
It is not about tradition, it is not about rituals, it is not about symbols,
It is not about becoming anything or anyone.
It is simply about being
What you are, have ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
The witness, the awareness, the youness, indivisibly permeates all consciousness.
The other, the otherness, is ultimately naught but a fabrication,
Naught but an imaginary, dualistic notion
Of quantum design.
* * * *
Where will believing the best or worst of others take you?
Into what adventures, what rabbit holes, will you tumble?
* * * *
The fixation, the obsession, the mania, the passion, of any given delusion,
Requires a steadfast detachment that relatively few can willingly muster.
* * * *
There is no middleman between you and the mystery you are.
There is no need to endlessly agonize over questions that have no answer.
There is no need to believe, to worship, to follow, to pray, to grovel, to tithe, to dogmatize,
To dread judgments from an on-high, to quake over imaginary heavens and hells.
You are That I Am, you are that which is unborn, enduring, undying,
As untainted and free as you allow your state of mind to be.
* * * *
We have a very challenging time facing the fact
That this three-dimensional existence is but a touchy-feely dream,
That absolutely nothing is permanent, that forever is nothing more than an idle concept,
A sound whose only reality is but a insignificant vibration in the indivisible,
That has no binds to time, no commitment to form, whatsoever.
* * * *
Any seed is but a one-time blueprint, which may or may not manage to reproduce,
And cast its temporal patterning a bit further in the streaming dream of space-time.
* * * *
Still the busy mind, and without giving anything any thought, simply be the awareness.
Give full attention to each of the senses: the eyes that see, the ears that hear,
The tongue that tastes, the nose that smells, the flesh that feels.
Pay attention to the momentary now, ever-streaming
Through the neural network to the central processing unit.
Where is your world, where is your universe, without the given mind
Projecting, reflecting, through the byzantine filters fabricated of imagination?
All creation is but the ceaseless patterning of nature-nurture set in motion some long ago.
A handiwork that has never been anything but an indivisible quantum matrix,
Never more than an inexplicable dreamtime of unknowable origin.
And the eternal unborn-enduring-undying awareness,
Witness to it all, you are it, and it is you.
* * * *
There is no part, no fragment, there is only the indivisible whole.
The divisible is but the fabrication of imagination,
And its relentless notions of duality.
Play the part, become the whole,
The nameless, prior to consciousness,
And it countless designs born of limitation.
* * * *
Feel the burning sun warm against your face.
Feel its power, its radiation, permeating your being.
Feel its perpetual capacity to create, to preserve, to destroy.
Is it any wonder that the peoples of old worshipped it,
And that the dominant imagined themselves gods.
* * * *
There it is again, beneath all the interminable facades of conscious design,
The essential as-real-as-it-gets youness, right here, right now,
Eternally present in an ever-timeless sort of way.
You are the irrefutable awareness.
There is no other.
* * * *
Look at all that the agonies and ecstasies
Of your ephemeral, very mortal existence have taught you,
And know that it will all be lost when the glimmer of that last electrical signal dims,
When the body and mind to which you are so habitually attached,
Turns off the light, and without further ado,
Quietly exit the dream.
* * * *
You are the mystery of you, the wonder of you, the eternity of you.
Only sensory perception, imaginary notion, separate you
From that most inescapably authentic reality.
Realize it, grapple it, know it, be it.
* * * *
What is always ironically droll is how the scientists measure,
And measure and measure, again and again, and nothing really changes.
What futility to believe our egocentric genus will ever evolve beyond its paradigm.
Imagine the vast collection of books and videos and photos and graphs and … and … and ...
That the aliens will discover in the scar tissue of this garden when they finally arrive.
Or maybe they already are here, watching us play out our narcissistic game.
* * * *
Are you really any more than an imaginary notion
Inspired by the dream into which you were cast?
* * * *
A certain genesis, a certain cosmos, a certain star, a certain world,
A certain distance, a certain whirl, a certain tilt, a certain evolution,
And voilà, here you are, playing out a mortal dream in space and time.
* * * *
When you get down to the nitty-gritty-brass-tacks gist of it,
You are really nothing more than the clear space of awareness
With a way long list of ever-changing imaginary assumptions.
* * * *
Consciousness is really nothing more
Than the lightning strikes given meaning and purpose
Along the neuron trails of the brain.
* * * *
Awareness is a dimension without limits, without boundaries, without attributes,
Filled only by the vaporous notions of consciousness, its absorption with, its adoration of,
Its interminable permutations, incessant convolutions, never-ending frivolities, of imaginary origin.
* * * *
To be agnostic, to be uncertain, is to explore for your Self,
No direction known, no answers sought, no conclusions made,
Is to be as eternally present as consciousness in space-time allows.
* * * *
What is the difference between a flake of gold and a grain of sand,
But a level, a degree, a magnitude, an intensity, of quantum vibration.
The appraisals deigned by consciousness are naught but imaginary notion.
* * * *
What is any modern world, any current era, any contemporary timeframe,
But the timeless present kaleidoscoping within the relativity of any given mind.
It is only as real, as tangible, as imagination, inspired by the sensory feed, ordains.
* * * *
Why believe anything, why fear anything, for which there is no rational proof?
To fear the irrational is to dread what is really nothing more
Than the imaginary dross born of mind.
* * * *
Most life forms exist in a choiceless eternal vulnerability
That knows neither birth nor death, nor any measurable notion.
Instinct is the patterning established in all though the Darwinian shaping
Of each and every genomic strand over millions and millions of years of evolution.
Consciousness, as the human ego fields it, assumes an invulnerability that is utterly fictional.
The assumption of free will, of choice, despite all illusions to the contrary,
Is every moment shackled to the instinctual roots of origin.
To suppose that you are truly and completely free,
That you have reign over your choices,
Is a dubious assertion, indeed.
The ultimate truth of it is,
That in any manifest dreamtime,
You can no more alter the given part you play
Than any other living thing acting out its minute function
In this inexplicable, indelible, indivisible, immutable, cosmic hologram,
Born in the vapors of imagination moving to and fro in the clear space of awareness.
To give over to the vulnerability you in reality ever are, is a reflective view to which few are drawn.
* * * *
Whether or not you chose to manifest in this dreamtime,
Is prior to all knowing, and need not be even the barest of concerns.
The point in fact is, you are here, you are now, and for perhaps no reason at all,
Which means you have the opportunity to play around a bit in whatever way may call you.
There will be consequences, there will be agony and ecstasy, there will be death.
Ultimately all smoke and mirrors, but certainly real enough at the time.
* * * *
What is there but awareness.
To call it infinite or infinitesimal is meaningless.
To give it any purpose, to slather it with any attributes, is irrelevant.
To even brand it truth is a beyond-the-pale absurdity.
* * * *
Life is an ever-changing universe, a convoluted maze with many, many doors.
You wander through the halls of your mind’s translation, your imagination’s rendering.
Some doors open, some do not; some open easily, some never at all; some open now, but not later;
Some are locked now, but open later; and some, many, most, never will.
Each mind has its fate, but only looking back.
* * * *
The weight of the world is but imaginary notion.
Still the mind, ignore the senses, waylay all the desires and fears.
Attend the awareness prior to consciousness, and, poof,
The world disappears in the mists of eternity.
* * * *
Nothing mattered before the beginning, and nothing will matter after the end.
And what is everything between but a stream of every sort of imaginary notion.
* * * *
The horror! The horror!
The absurdity! The absurdity!
The bother! The bother!
* * * *
Stop believing all the deceptions the conditioned mind endlessly weaves.
You are the eternal awareness: nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
What a desolate conception of god has emerged in so many human minds.
How can any abide any vision that is not all-inclusive, all-accepting?
Any view that is cloaked by every imaginable dogmatic absurdity?
What is the point and purpose of all this incessant, nonsensical conflict
Over what is, and has ever been, nothing more than fictional confabulation?
* * * *
What does any timeless, immaculate moment become but a snapshot in memory.
A marker encoded in the filaments of the neuron trail.
Imagination does the rest.
* * * *
Human consciousness is a vortex of desire and fear
And every variety of passion they foster,
Which will draw you in as far as you cannot resist,
With all the flesh and mind delights of Power, Fame, Fortune,
And the Seven Deadlies: Pride, Envy, Gluttony, Lust, Wrath, Greed, Sloth.
* * * *
Any personal god is nothing more than an imaginary illusion-delusion.
You are the only thing personal wandering about this quantum mystery.
* * * *
No philosophy can ever more than point and sally at truth.
None can dictate more than piecemeal injunctions and futile remedies.
Language can never be anything more than barren distraction
From the inherent mystery peering out from within.
* * * *
The clock hands go round and round and round, and you ever the same.
Whoo-hoo for eternity playing out the dream of space and time
In the awareness of your most thunder, perfect mind.
* * * *
You were told you were this, you were told you were that,
And now you meander the ever-present dream of space and time believing it all true.
A make-believe meme, a conditioned pattern, an autonomous invention,
Woven into the ceaseless chatter of the consciousness,
Each and every moment streaming
In the clear space of timeless awareness.
* * * *
Fabricating deities and grand complex schemas of heavens and hells and purgatories between,
Is really nothing more than a elaborate way of declaring how clueless you truly are.
Much more delusional, much more bothersome, much more absurd,
Than just being quietly, simply, honestly agnostic.
How much more profound it is to neither know nor care.
* * * *
How can the immaculate awareness you truly are,
Ever be more, ever be less, than what it is right here, right now?
What is this fleeting corporeal existence but a timeless dream, unborn, undying.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how are you,
But vain attachment to a sack of bones and goo,
A collection of filtered perceptions, of vague memories,
A meme, a recording, a scratchy record going round and round,
The same song playing over and over until breath and beat do you part.
* * * *
How could the timeless awareness you truly are,
That which is without attributes, that which is absolutely singular,
Ever be in any way different, or in anyway separate, from anyone or anything else’s?
There is no divisibility but through the imaginary notions of consciousness.
* * * *
What is heaven, what is hell, but potentials of mind given over to equanimity or volatility.
What more can any ask of their dreamtime than to have a mind at peace with its Self,
A mind that is content, a mind that is serene, a mind that is eternal unto its origin.
* * * *
What is the universe of a crow, a tuna, a rat, a cockroach, a microbe?
How vain to believe yours any more real, any more important than theirs.
* * * *
In the ocean of indivisibility, the ocean of awareness, the ocean of consciousness,
In which all things in synchronicity move hither and thither, to and fro,
Existence is nothing more than a habit, a pattern, a recording,
A dream in which the nature-nurture of every seed
Plays out its timeless, inseparable part.
* * * *
If you must hope for anything of this existence,
Hope for a quick, unexpected, painless death.
* * * *
Awareness is the timelessness through which consciousness fashions space-time.
There is naught but now, in which imagination casts itself hither and thither
Like a wind that cannot decide whether to be a zephyr or a hurricane.
* * * *
Who am I? Well, I am me, the same me as you.
Both of us likely just as attached to our flesh and bone guises,
Just as attached to our vain notions in this garden’s play of nature-nurture.
We are all nothing more than a relatively brief play of differences
Cavorting in the same vast ocean of indivisibility,
Ultimately born of the same source,
The same awareness,
The same unknowable unknown.
Name it, label it, describe it, identify it, classify it,
Sanction it however you will, it is ever the same inexplicable essence.
* * * *
What is imagination but the neural wind of the mind.
Sometimes still, sometimes breeze, sometimes tempest.
* * * *
It is hard to fathom that rational scientific method does not reign across the board,
That superstition, mythology, make-believe, idolatry, dogma, fanaticism,
Still have such an enduring foothold in the human psyche.
* * * *
The quantum mystery will pretend
Whatever meaning and purpose you vainly imagine,
And not even one scintilla of it ultimately real or important all the while.
* * * *
It is more than a little dubious, more than a little moot,
That anyone bothers speaking out about the way they view reality,
When it so often provokes more conflict, more thistles, in the minds of others.
Far more rational, far wiser, far kinder, to go hang out alone in some anonymous venue,
Some serene garden bench, some understated front porch, imbibing the spaciousness of awareness.
Enjoying in solitude, in tranquility, what relatively little mortal dreamtime is left.
* * * *
You are your own witness, your own muse, born of the world, the universe,
That your many attachments to mind and body inspire you to believe real and true.
It is but a quantum dream, but one you must play out for as long as the mortal faire allows.
* * * *
Attempting to replicate another's awakening is impossible.
You must perceive and witness your own mind,
Your own world, your own universe,
Unutterably alone.
* * * *
This dreamtime offers any educated mind incalculable ways to discern, to filter, this quantum theater.
Historian, scientist, mathematician, philosopher, anthropologist, sociologist, psychologist,
And on and on and on for minds born with the grit and gumption to learn.
* * * *
We tag this indelible mystery with so many names,
Shore it up with so many speculations,
All equally meaningless.
* * * *
We are all wandering in our own very unique, very subjective, very alone, version of a universe.
A timeless conundrum, an inexplicable mystery, an immeasurable dream,
From all beginnings to all endings.
None of us have ever seen our own face, and none of us ever will.
* * * *
Where is the division between consciousness and unconsciousness
For anyone giving the mind and all its movements their full attention.
* * * *
You are, indeed, a quantum jester.
A fool, a wit, a wag, a tool, for the indivisible unknown
To tarry for the briefest of whiles in an imaginary dream of space and time.
* * * *
The mind is a castle keep, and the awareness you truly are its sovereign.
To allow no other to haphazardly trample about the dominion
Is to hold fast against the tempests of consciousness.
* * * *
History is so much greater than any culture, any philosophy, any mound of gold.
And the world, the universe, the quantum field, is far greater than anything imaginable,
And the unknowable, the indivisible, the nothingness, prior to all manifestation, is trump to all.
* * * *
It takes a great deal of courage, a great deal of detachment,
To not take life, to not take this world, this dream, personally.
* * * *
Travel time? How can something that does not exist be traveled?
How can you be anywhere but the here now in which you ever indivisibly reside?
Imagination, the quixotic author of this enigmatic quantum stagecraft,
Is the only time traveler there has ever been, or will ever be.
* * * *
What are you, what is any form, but a derivative of the indivisible totality.
All but infinitesimal widgets thingamajigging within the ever-kaleidoscoping quantum matrix.
Consciousness claiming to be this or that is but the delusion of imagination
Identifying with ever-changing temporal circumstance.
* * * *
Your original state was absolutely, indivisibly, unconditionally flawless.
The only question is whether that unutterably formless, timeless emptiness,
That immaculate awareness prior to consciousness, prior to all whims of mind,
Can be steadfastly reestablished while immersed in the given day-to-day.
It is a homecoming only the rarest of the rare ever contemplate.
* * * *
We are what we have always been: self-absorbed in every which-way imaginable.
There are already far too many of our kind, and daily more and more,
And in spite of our indelible aptitude at inventing every conceivable thingamajig,
It is inevitable that we will ultimately prove incapable of surviving our Frankenstein creation.
* * * *
Life is death and death is life; the two are indivisibly intertwined in this dream of time.
To cling to one or the other is to entirely miss the point that neither truly are or are not.
* * * *
No quarter given, no quarter taken,
The ultimate Darwinian reality in this manifest theater.
Might makes right in every dreamer’s dream.
* * * *
Look deadly, be deadly; look deadly, be harmless;
Look harmless, be deadly; look harmless, be harmless.
Survival is as survival does in this indivisible quantum Eden,
This garden of good and evil born of imagination’s egocentric notion.
* * * *
Your illusory cosmos is your teacher, it is your frame of reference.
it is a interminable streaming of faces and places and every variety of form.
It is all the creatures from large to small, it is galaxies beyond what any eye can see.
It is words and numbers and sounds and symbols, and whatever else consciousness aspires.
It is the imaginary mind, it is the imaginary you, it is the imaginary not you.
And through it all, the ubiquitous awareness you truly are,
Ever the indifferent, solitary witness.
* * * *
Ethics is the luxury of a full belly and a safe harbor.
Might makes right, it always has, it likely always will.
The best any can hope for is a benevolent claw and fang.
* * * *
All this time, all this effort, all this angst, all this sillines,
Only to finally figure out that it is all nothing more than a touchy-feely dream
Sponsored by an inexplicable quantum feed.
Argh, indeed.
* * * *
What is human history but the ever-predictable monkey-mind,
Rolodexing its muddle of consciousness over and over and over.
* * * *
In every end, it will be as it was in every beginning,
As it was in every meridian and every twinkling in every between,
And as it is in every imaginable before, as it is in every imaginable after, as well.
Any notion that your “youness” is in any way separate from the eternal
Is nothing more than the delusion of the sensory mind-body.
* * * *
Awareness is the perceiving, awareness is the observing, awareness is the witnessing.
There is no observer, there is no witness; the source is not a thing, it is not consciousness,
It is not at all attached to any who, any what, any where, any when, any why, any how.
It merely is – indivisibly, indescribably, timelessly– free and clear of all attributes.
* * * *
Time is the streaming of consciousness.
There is no time in the heart of awareness.
Abandon the ticking clock lodged in your mind,
And apperceive the timeless, immeasurable beingness
You truly are, have ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
Do not be ensnared by the temporal mind-body you imagine your Self to be.
It is but ductless glands and viscera, a vehicle of relatively fleeting duration
* * * *
This spinning orb is the universe’s insane asylum, oft times called Hell.
For shards of Soul who believe they are separate from the null and void.
* * * *
Discern the timeless stillness of the awareness prior to consciousness.
Become that peace, that tranquility, that calmness, that that serenity.
* * * *
Everyone would do well to challenge, to confront, their imaginary deities,
Their superstitions, their fallacies, their delusions, and whatever other dreads,
At least once and awhile to find out if anything noteworthy really happens.
Take a scientific approach rather than be some meme-ridden puppet.
* * * *
What is human existence but an ever-streaming play of consciousness,
An ever-kaleidoscoping play of some given mind attached to some given circumstance,
An ever-emanating play of minds mesmerized by every imaginable difference
That the delusions of sensory illusion can fashion real and true.
Ultimately nothing more than the quantum enigma
Playing a game of light and shadow.
* * * *
The purgatory of consciousness offers only fragmented peace.
Heaven is the motionless oblivion of pure, unfiltered awareness.
* * * *
The time born of mind reigns through the continuity of its many memes, its many patterns.
Consciousness reinforces these repetitive cultural blueprints through conditioning.
Relatively few are inclined to free themselves from their domesticated lot,
To discern the timeless awareness at the cradle of all imagined.
* * * *
Quantum awareness, quantum consciousness: omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent.
What more god could you possibly witness? What more god could you possibly be?
* * * *
What is the universe but a quantum creation spun of nothing,
And every existence witness to a unique cosmos of patterned design,
As devised by the senses in their eternal perception of the winds of illusion.
* * * *
We are only joking ourselves if we think anyone,
Much less anyone in the political-economic-religious forum,
Is going to steer a safer course, much less turn our little Titanic around.
We only exist, we only abide, at this absurd level of beyond-the-pale statistical intrigue
Because of oil and our beyond-the-pale tool-making ability, coupled with an insatiable greed for more.
There is no happy ending, no over the rainbow, to the horror story daily unfolding.
Economic and environmental collapse is inevitable;
How and when the only question.
* * * *
Consciousness concocts every imaginable speculation
To grapple with this inexplicable quantum mystery,
But its ultimate reality of is prior any metaphor.
* * * *
What is the dreaming state – the thoughts, the images, the sensations – of sleep,
But the incessant movement of the mind without sensory reference points?
Is there really a division between consciousness and sub-consciousness,
Or is it merely the mind facing or not facing whatever reality is unfolding?
* * * *
The mind is a weaving of attachment to all its imagery.
Everything though and done is founded upon the conditioning
Of space-time since the inception of its first perception.
* * * *
Consciousness is the movement, the vibration, the lightning storm, of the brain.
Mind is fabricated by the attachment to the many emotional and conceptual patterns,
The conditioning, to which it abides for whatever sojourn the dreamtime of quantum ordains.
* * * *
It is the nature of reflective, earnest doubt that no lie will long suffice.
Once you embark on this solitary journey to discern the truth of this implacable mystery,
There will be a never-ending array of ever-enticing interruptions and diversions.
Every sort of blind alley, roadblock, dead end, and impasse imaginable.
But there will be no turning back, there will be no stopping.
* * * *
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
What does it matter, they are both illusion.
* * * *
Achieving the so-called higher states of consciousness
– Detachment, wisdom, harmony, serenity, equanimity, contentment –
Are especially arduous, and take a great deal of practice.
* * * *
Standing for nothing is the only way to avoid the exceedingly common human delusion
That existence has some paramount meaning and purpose, that values are authentic and true,
That morals, that ethics, are more than just vain concoctions of a species that has yet to come to terms
With the fact that they are but temporal consequences of evolutionary happenstance.
* * * *
You are the sacrifice, your life has been chosen,
And you are carrying a cross of your own making.
We are all martyrs of our own imaginary notion.
* * * *
What sense can perceive the eternal conundrum of awareness?
What attribute can prove it? What word can define it? What mind can bind it?
Awareness is the sovereignty of all things imperceptible, unprovable, indefinable, unbindable.
* * * *
The dormancy of a deep, deep sleep is the recharging of the vitality.
All the activity of personal mythos, all the sensory shimmering in that imaginary center,
All that desire and dread and passion grind down the corporeal mind-body.
It goes home for a little oblivion, interrupted only by dreams.
* * * *
An indifferent universe witness by an indifferent awareness.
Is the notion of caring any less capricious than the wind?
* * * *
Once you discern there is something more than the mundane temporal to this existence,
Once you realize awareness is the source code to this dreamtime, the rest is up to you.
* * * *
No matter how vividly you might remember anything,
It is nothing more than the mind caught in imaginary notion,
Not the sensory perception of the unfolding moment itself.
* * * *
How quickly attitude can turn on its head.
How quickly perspective can morph into some contrary state.
How quickly white can become black, light become shadow, good become evil,
Clear become murky, more become less, hit become miss, right become wrong, love become hate,
Similar become different, have become have not, smile become frown, ecstasy become agony,
Flexible become rigid, pleasure become pain, interest become tedium, full become empty,
Kindness become intolerance, compassion become cruelty, inclusion become isolation,
Moderation become excess, exotic become tedious, eloquence become incoherent,
Positive become negative, respect become disdain, esteem become loathing,
Logic become arbitrary, harmony become discord, benevolence become malice,
Modesty become vain, honor become shame, virtue become vice, refined become coarse,
Yes become no, trust become suspicion, tolerance become prejudice, sensible become absurd,
Soft become hard, unconditional become qualified, sincerity become irony, reason become paradox,
Deep become shallow, hot become cold, happiness become sorrow, respect become contempt,
Freedom become coercion, paradise become dystopia, indivisible become divisible,
Reality becomes illusion, truth become delusion, red pill become blue pill,
And vice versa and hither-thither gray on all of the above, as well.
What is the psyche but a swirling cauldron of passion.
* * * *
Whether coincidences are anything more or less
Than the mystery creaking silently away in its synergistic fashion,
All speculations aside, is well beyond the pay grade of we playing out the mortal realm.
* * * *
You have often witnessed the absurdity, the inanity, the insanity,
Of those who thoughtlessly, fearfully, abide in one form of ignorance or another.
Seek out those who freely tender sound and compassionate wisdom,
And then only to listen, to learn, and perchance to own.
* * * *
Somehow the mysterious indivisible quantum glue of the eternal now
Holds together each and every streaming holograph moment one into the next.
It is just all too fucking boggling for consciousness to ever wrap its wee little mind around.
* * * *
The sins of the universe are erased when the original nature is realized.
The notion of good and evil is nothing more than human vanity
Playing out patterning bred in the jungles of long ago.
* * * *
There will be no end to the human narrative, to human storytelling,
As long as there is imagination to sustain the underlying collusion.
* * * *
In the worship of any god or gods,
What are individuals or groups really doing,
But bowing and scraping to imaginary confabulations?
* * * *
To state this ethereal kaleidoscoping dreamtime is all one, quantum fact that it is,
Is for many little more than some after-the-fact-romantic-lyrical notion.
The timeless awareness is the ever-present, intangible reality,
And consciousness, despite all its skillful wordplay,
Can in reality never do much more than grunt and point.
* * * *
At some point in the hereness, at some point in the nowness,
Some minds, bit by bit, little by little, awaken to the given conditioning.
Awaken to the great doubt, the great question, and in that calamity of consciousness,
Begin a long and winding and solitary journey towards eternal reunion.
* * * *
Enthrallment with any of the assorted forms of occult power,
Whether it be called paranormal, sorcery, mysticism, spirituality, religion, or ad infinitum,
Are nothing more the continuing dance of consciousness with illusion.
* * * *
Tombs preserve nothing but the dread and hope of a fictitious reality.
The mind-body is an ephemeral means, a temporal carousel,
Ultimately nothing more than a prospective repast
For a variety of worms and other critters.
* * * *
Is the intensity awash in the true believer’s eyes
Really anything more than the vanity of consciousness
Embroiled in its own double-double-toil-and-trouble brew?
* * * *
You wander from trend to trend, craze to craze, believing you live meaningfully.
What folly to think pleasure after pleasure will satisfy the ceaseless yearning for more.
The insatiable craving of consciousness for everlasting exhilaration is a barren vine.
* * * *
Those who would explore the expanses of the eternal mind
Will wander through many cycles of limbo, of anguish, of despair.
In the play of consciousness, there are no heights without nadirs between.
* * * *
Telescopes and microscopes, and all the technologies,
Have conveyed humanity to every conceivable large and small,
But it is ever the same sensory set, the same monkey-mind, filtering it all.
We are both masters and slaves to our tool-making capabilities,
And the imagination to which we so earnestly cling.
* * * *
Someone may point out this inexplicable, indivisible mystery,
And perhaps offer thoughts and suggestions and cautions and encouragement.
Call them teachers, call them gurus, call them priests, call them mystics, call them what you will.
But there are no followers in the journey, the expedition, the quest, the pursuit, for Self.
There are no disciples, no believers, no devotees, no partisans, no adherents.
Only friends and acquaintances, and perhaps the vexing adversary,
All inquiring, very much alone, into what is real and true.
* * * *
In the innermost voyage of awakening,
Attachment to the given mind-body has less and less footing.
From the ultimate panorama, the corporeal arrangement, the perceptual patterning,
Is nothing more than a temporal, sensory vehicle,
A means, not an end.
* * * *
If you do not say it now, if you do not do it now, whatever it is needs doing will not get done.
Now is the one and only moment, now is the one and only the time, now is the one and only way.
No matter who-what-where-when-why-how says it, no matter who-what-where-when-why-how does it,
If it is not said now, if it is not done now, how else will time play out its imaginary dream?
* * * *
Life and death are intertwined: one is not without the other
In each and every moment of this play of imaginary design.
* * * *
All mythologies are mind-made narratives; none abide in the eternal abyss.
They are not foundations to anything more than arbitrary, capricious cultural memes.
Thumb-sucking security blankets for those unable to endure alone the winds of temporal illusion.
* * * *
Free your Self of the concept of original sin,
The dualistic notion decreed by ignorance upon innocence,
That you were involuntarily forced into by being cast into the human epoch.
None are born wicked, none are born offending any god or gods,
None are born transgressing any moral imperative.
There is no sin, no evil, only separation.
* * * *
In the figurative, rhetorical, metaphorical sense, we all commit suicide.
Merely by having been flung into existence by the genetic lottery,
Each seeks out, through many choices, consciously or not,
One manner of tangible decline and fall or another.
* * * *
You are reminded of your immortality, yet choose the death of separation.
All for a few coins, the vanity of the senses, and an ceaseless variety of illusive dreams.
We are all parts in each other's plays, witnesses to an infinite diversity.
Use your awareness to discover the unicity of it.
* * * *
Belief is a spurious brainchild of dualistic notion.
To believe implies that the subject is not connected to the object,
That the beingness is some dynamic force outside you, the observer, the witness.
It is a denial of the unicity of all that is seen, and all that is unseen.
* * * *
What need for belief? What need for creed? What need for faith? What need for prayer?
What insecure beasts we are that such inflated, hollow notions are given more import
Than the timeless awareness offered in each and every kaleidoscoping moment.
* * * *
The obvious fact is that every life form
Is a drop of that which is the truth, the life, and the way.
To maintain any lesser vision is delusional, and serves no significant purpose,
Other than to create perpetual, meaningless, divisive struggle.
* * * *
In this ever-changing cause-and-effect reverie, there is no going back, there is no rewind button.
You cannot change what is not changeable, you cannot mend what is not mendable.
You must enjoy in ecstasy or endure in agony whatever consequences
Your ephemeral window of dreamtime has in store.
* * * *
There is much more faith in timelessly abiding in the awareness of the given moment,
Accepting whatever gifts, enduring whatever tortures, the eternal dreamtime manifests,
Than can ever be concocted by any fear-based belief system fabricated of the human mind.
* * * *
Does the dreamtime in your head
Ebb and flow from one extreme to another?
Only you can fathom the many thoughts, the many passions,
To which you so steadfastly, resolutely cling.
* * * *
All belief systems of mortal persuasion are fear-based, greed-laced, and mundanely played.
It takes much more courage to stand alone, absolute and free in the indivisible dreamtime of eternity,
Than it ever will milling about, mindlessly ditto-heading with any time-bound, idolatrous herd.
* * * *
What a curious thing to believe anyone across the world
Is ever thinking about you as relentlessly as you yourself do.
Even the most saintly of mothers moves on at some point.
* * * *
Your mortal stance, when contrasted to the eternity you truly are,
Is really no longer than that of a fruit fly, or even the universe.
What is it that entices you to believe this worldly theater real?
* * * *
What an incredible thing to give your dream over to whatever winds blow,
To sail through life, no direction known, tacking to and fro as caprice dictates,
Each and every harbor yet another quest, another exploration, another adventure.
To set aside dread and desire, to leave behind all who would dictate otherwise,
Is a life for which only the rare few have either enthusiasm or audacity.
* * * *
Only in timeless awareness is there anything resembling free will,
And even then the patterned meme filters the dreamtime theater.
* * * *
What is mating between male and female but two half-strands of genomic material,
Evolved from the same double-double-toil-and-trouble puddle of life’s origin,
Coming together into a new universe of sensory-inspired imagination.
* * * *
You peruse these many thoughts,
But how you translate them
Is entirely based on the frame of reference
Through which your time-bound mortal dream timelessly filters.
* * * *
Despite all groupthink to the contrary, you must work out your own eternal salvation.
Believing, hoping, praying, that some other will do it for you misses the reality.
Embracing agnostic oblivion is the true potential offered by awareness.
* * * *
Every human being has their own raison d'être,
Their own meaning, their own purpose, their own rationale.
Their own motivation, ethos, inspiration, philosophy, belief, and hope.
All are equally imagined, so there is no point in judging.
Be and allow, as the given moment allows.
* * * *
A child does not yet comprehend its ever-expanding universe.
Its innocence is transparent, its mind unblemished, its heart untarnished,
By the innumerable agonies and ecstasies the mind-body in consciousness has in store.
* * * *
It is awareness that is the immortal aspect, not consciousness.
Consciousness is but the filament of imagination,
The means to create and play in time.
It can never be real.
* * * *
The real gold of this ephemeral dreamtime existence
Is right relationship with nature, with all life in its myriad forms.
To value that which is but glitter, that which is but greed,
Is to miss entirely the quality of existence itself.
* * * *
One Screen to rule them all.
One Screen to find them,
One Screen to bring them all
And in the absurdity bind them.
* * * *
To detach completely from everything, from all clung to by body and mind,
From all things, from all concepts, from all sense of self as identity.
All desires, all fears, all passions, all me-myself-and-I,
So as to be nothing but the anonymity of pure consciousness.
* * * *
You travel through existence believing it all real and true,
Until in one fated moment of realization, who knows when, kapow!
The cadaver suddenly seems both older and younger than you once thought.
And you spend the rest of your dream watching its bones turn to dust.
* * * *
You must act in order to exist in this manifest dream.
The challenge is not allowing the day-to-day to weigh you down.
To curtail the inherent friction of temporality upon the ever-present mind.
* * * *
In consciousness, desire is an insatiable, unquenchable force,
And fear its excruciating, insufferable, irrational alter-ego.
* * * *
Everything thought – everything seen, felt, heard, smelt, tasted – is but projection.
A perpetually kaleidoscoping a priori reverie of remembering and forgetting.
Really nothing more than sensory perception given imaginary significance.
* * * *
What is consciousness but wave after wave bound to attributes.
Awareness is the nothingness, the unknowable unknown of eternity,
Prior to all dimensions, all imaginary dreams of space and time.
* * * *
The decline of age involves not being near as bright and clever as you once were,
And perhaps finally discerning enough to at-last-long-overdue apprehend
You were never near as bright and clever as you once believed.
* * * *
How can you ever make sense of something so absurdly wacko,
That rationality gave up and is drinking alone in some forsaken bar.
* * * *
Imagine you suddenly came into consciousness in an adult body without any prior experience.
No narration, no knowledge, no conditioning, no language, no attachment, no desire, no fear,
No family, no friends, no enemies, no sense of identity, completely alone, an absolute abyss.
Just pure awareness, observing the sensory feed without it making any sense, whatsoever.
A stranger in a strange land, wandering the ephemeral garden orb, as free as free can be.
* * * *
You are but a momentary portal to that which is unknowable.
An ephemeral window between what is and what is not,
In which the eternal witness has the opportunity
To observe its Self through a worldly dream.
* * * *
You are Quantum: creator-preserver-destroyer of universes beyond counting.
All across this world, in every epoch, you have sung many songs
And left behind many writings, many creations.
You are all that has ever been, you are all that will ever be.
And in your wake, every possible ripple, every imaginable consequence.
All creation emanates within and without the indifference of your timeless awareness.
* * * *
What if the entire human spectacle, the entire world, the entire universe, the entire creation.
Is merely a means, a scheme, a ruse, a gambit, a ploy, a plan, a tactic, a stratagem,
For the ultimate awareness, the ultimate intelligence, to discern its Self.
What if the definitive speculation is all about you sitting there,
Quietly reading these words, and realizing it true,
And you Soul witness of your version.
* * * *
Why keep investing in anything that can never possibly bear fruit,
Anything doomed to a pattern of self-absorption,
And all the delusions born of it.
* * * *
Consciousness requires attributes to play out its spew of imaginary notions.
Without forms, without concepts, it is caught in the abyss of awareness.
* * * *
What is the main reason for the study of history,
But fathoming how our kind reached this point in dreamtime.
We do not have to keep repeating our patterns, continuing our collusions,
But the possibility of any meaningful change is right up in there with the flying pigs.
* * * *
In the play of space-time, why would, why should, how could,
Anyone ever live their life according to some translation
Other than the one their sensory dream imagines.
* * * *
If you examine everything through a Darwinian filter,
What makes humankind so potent is that in our evolutionary stampede,
Consciousness has magnified the underlying animal instincts to such a beyond-all-pales degree
That we are well past changing course or slamming on the brakes in any meaningful way.
Ergo, we are exponentially accelerating pedal-to-the-metal in every imaginable venue,
And only a few inches from a very solid, a very certain wall built by natural law.
Yet another petri dish experiment confabulated by an indifferent universe.
* * * *
Memory is a dead thing thought living,
A swirl of energy given meaning, a notion given relevance.
Imagination, nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
Death will arrive in a moment very much like this one,
With consciousness coming to an end, and eternity steadfastly carrying on,
Without the you as you have come to know it in the identification with the mind-body dreamtime.
The one and only real you, that you always are, have always been, will ever be.
* * * *
What is the paradigm of human consciousness
But a perpetual, whirling dance of the seven emotions:
Hate … adoration … joy … anxiety … anger … grief … fear …
And occasionally the unwritten eighth: contentment.
* * * *
Any and all idolatry is but the imaginary confabulation of the conceptual mind.
It was not any deity who created us in its image, but we, he-or-she-or-it, in ours.
Give this moment, this instant, no thought, and awareness is the unalterable alter,
The matrix, the hologram, in which you very much alone, in every twinkling, reside.
* * * *
Through a variety of Darwinian happenchances, humankind evolved
Such that its imagination created the fictional collusion of time.
To accomplish this revolutionary leap from Eden's instinctive rhythm,
Every manner of delusion was incorporated to cultivate and expand its viability,
The sense of identity being the first and foremost thread in its intricate, illusory weaving.
* * * *
What is any historical notion, whether individual, or tribal to whatever scale,
But consciousness playing out its perpetual vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity cadence.
* * * *
Human consciousness is but one lineage,
Of the of the natural-selection quantum mystery of evolution.
The synergy of awareness, brain, brawn, sensory nerve endings, opposable thumbs, larynx,
Two arms, two legs, lung capacity, group dynamics, sexuality, et cetera.
Witness that you are, have ever been, will ever be,
It is all about you, and not all about you all the while.
* * * *
Try to forget the little self, the fictitious identity, at least once and awhile.
Expand into the indivisible universe, the timeless totality, within and without.
Be the awareness, the big Self, that you truly are, have ever been, and will ever be.
* * * *
Each and every moment, inhaled and exhaled, examined and released.
The eternal life is not for those who cling to the imaginary concoctions of mind.
The vague memories of all that is ever come and gone, is not real living.
It is the stillness of awareness that is the fountain of existence.
* * * *
Is consciousness higher or lower in this monkey-mind theater,
Or more likely a long and winding continuum of endless complexity:
More or less intelligent, more or less attentive, more or less knowledgeable,
More or less perceptive, more or less creative– all about different things.
How amazing anything exists at all, much less evolved to such a degree
As to expand this mystery to an even greater scale of unfathomable.
* * * *
What are you but a temporal assumption, a mind made known,
The unconditional playing out a self-actuating algorithm,
That the programmed you, constrained by dreamtime, calls self.
The me-and-myself-and-I to which the human collusion vainly subscribes.
* * * *
What forges any hell, any purgatory, any heaven, but relationship with others.
Other imaginary selves with whom your imaginary self synergizes in so many ways.
We are all the same monkey-mind, destined to the agonies and ecstasies of every passion.
Only in the relativity of an enduring detachment is there any possibility of a moderate course.
* * * *
Sisyphus need only let the rock roll back down the hill.
Atlas need only shrug his shoulders and set the world down.
So many things to which we cling for so many imaginary notions.
* * * *
The chatter and imagery of dreams is no different than that of the awake state.
Consciousness and sub-consciousness, and other imaginary conceptions,
Are not at all as distinct as the delineators would have you believe.
* * * *
No matter where we meander, no matter where we rest our weary heads,
Getting through any given instant still boils down to a mindful dollop of detachment.
Not taking it all so seriously, not taking ourselves so seriously, is the first and last challenge.
Conscious of it or not, in one way or another, we are all playing out the Atlas of our conditioning,
And learning to set down our imaginary universe may not be as hard as we choose to believe.
* * * *
Does everything you believe you possess in reality possess you?
Are commitments to anything in reality anything more
Than twists and turns of irony and paradox?
* * * *
History is but smatterings of stories passed down from generation to generation.
Much of it egocentric-ethnocentric-geocentric braidings of imaginary notion,
To which the blameless future often incoherently, irrationally, binds itself.
* * * *
How can any gaze out into the immeasurable universe
And truly believe some vain, wrathful deity
Born of their feeble imagination
Did all that and more?
Pfffft.
* * * *
Many if not most need some imaginary deity on the outside,
Because they fathom themselves so measurable on the inside.
* * * *
What identify with anything in this manifest dreamtime?
All the mind-body-universe concepts, you are none of them.
Allow the sovereignty of the inherent aloneness reign supreme.
* * * *
What if no one but you really exists?
What if it is all noting more than imagination
Playing out a sensory dream in the void of awareness?
* * * *
No one can rouse those who sleepwalk undoubting through their given reverie.
Awakening is a banquet to which all are invited, but for which few are earnestly ravenous.
The kaleidoscoping dreamtime of light and sound hypnotizes and seduces most.
You alone must strive to awaken in whatever way your mind allows.
* * * *
What is any other but what you,
In the dream of mind, choose to push, choose to carry.
Let the boulder go, Sisyphus, let it go.
Shrug, Atlas, shrug.
* * * *
Once you cease identifying with the mind-body
And all its imaginary-illusory-sensory-temporal creations,
What to do with whatever dreamtime that remains is a daily wander.
* * * *
What is male, what is female, but the ways and means
By which the three-dimensional dreamtime of awareness plays on,
But ultimately ever the same essence, ever the same androgynous indivisibility.
* * * *
Humankind, the world, the universe, and all its many creations, is doomed to destruction,
Because there is nothing that can be saved or preserved in this quantum hologram.
Attachment to attributes, attachment to illusion, binds you to such concerns.
* * * *
Every humanoid since the species evolved in the jungles of long ago,
Each with its own exclusive twist of a monkey-mind,
Plays out a completely different aspect of the same swirling consciousness,
Entirely based on the draw in the genetic lottery, and the winds of time into which the seed is cast.
We are all witnesses to completely unique quantum universes born of imagination.
* * * *
Your true religion is how you choose to live each and every moment.
Whether you create heaven or hell, are angel or demon,
Is played out in every act, in every deed,
And though none can ever see their part unequivocally,
Only you even begin to fathom the whole truth of your imaginary realm.
* * * *
Always a good idea to bring along layers.
Fine to hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, as well.
No one ever knows which way the wind will blow, for how long, or how hot or cold.
We are temperate beasts, and do not easily transcend the whims of nature.
* * * *
How can this unfathomable mystery not be boggling prior to and beyond all belief?
What need for faith? What need for religion? What need for philosophy?
What need for anything but to meld into the timeless nature,
The eternal awareness pervading all creation.
What need to more than realize the indelible enigma of it,
And to freely blossom into the inexplicable reality that you are it, it is you.
* * * *
Despite all the encumbrances about your body and in your mind,
You have never really possessed anything or anyone, and never really will.
You are but a temporal squatter in an erstwhile dream born of quantum playing time.
* * * *
The personal mind, the quantum mind, the cosmic mind, the eternal mind, the no-mind,
Are all the same ephemeral awareness, the same witness, the same youness,
Really nothing more than alternating frames of consciousness,
Filtering as the whimsical moment inclines.
* * * *
Human beings tend to believe they are the most special concoctions this garden has ever created,
But, despite their self-congratulating, narcissistic claims of innate superiority, they are not.
Might may make right, but it is only the absurdly surreal arrogance of consciousness
That embraces the delusion that some are, in the ultimate reality, more equal than others.
* * * *
Whether or not there is consciousness
Anything like it has been manifested in our own garden world,
Whether or not this is a one-of-a-kind, once-upon-a-time, unique moment in all Creation,
Is a question to which mu will ever be the one-and-only answer,
For those who even bother to ask.
* * * *
The ever-changing faces and names, are they ever really all that different?
Consciousness weaving its way down neurological trails
Born of the same monkey-mind.
* * * *
How many different perceptions, different judgments,
The many others have allotted you in their dreamtime passing.
From archangel to fiend, you are assigned every ecstasy, every agony,
That the rungs of hell and purgatory and paradise might in imagination offer.
Raised on high or condemned, the you, you truly are, is ever immaculate, ever absolute.
* * * *
Who does not begin a journey assuming they will arrive?
Who does not go to sleep assuming they will awaken?
Who does not assume, not believe, not trust, not hope,
Anything will happen just as imagination would have it.
Alas that mortal faire does not subscribe to wishful notion.
* * * *
The road less traveled is less a road than a solitary, interminable, cross-country odyssey,
Through an uncharted, untamed, no-direction-known wilderness
Complete with every distraction imaginable.
* * * *
Humankind has been at each other’s throats
Since its puddle origin, long before it ever exited the jungles,
For every imaginable reason ever concocted.
* * * *
What is this magical-mystery dreamtime
But a teensy-weensy sliver of imaginary perception
Sandwiched between the pre-historic and post-historic unknown.
* * * *
You are this eternal nowness, and this eternal nowness is you.
This is the one and only nowness awareness ever is, has ever been, will ever be.
In some soon-to-be mind-body space-time, you will be “doing” something else in the same nowness.
And still later, it will be the same awareness “doing” something else in the same nowness.
The timeless mind prior to the kaleidoscoping dreamtime is ever the same.
Eternal life is being mindful in an empty-mind sort of way.
* * * *
Nature is the timeless filament of all creation,
The source code by which all things come to pass,
The brush used by the quantum unknown
To paint itself the dream of time.
* * * *
What is the first and foremost vanity but you believing your identity real,
But you being attached to your body, your mind, your world,
None of which has ever really been yours at all.
* * * *
Realize it or not, you are in reality born again and again and again, each and every moment.
It is only in the collusion of imagination, the collusion of so-called humankind,
That you believe, that you accept, the seeming continuity real.
* * * *
Can you imagine a buzzard pulling at your entrails?
A worm peering out your left eye socket?
Something else crawly, drifting up your right nostril?
Your bones bleaching into dust beneath a blazing summer sun?
In one way or another, that is your fate etched in the vapors of dreamtime.
* * * *
Painting oneself royal in any of the many fashions
Is nothing more than another shade of illusory delusion,
Played out by pretenders who really believe their shit superior.
Dress up any given pig however you will, it will always be
Just another hog scampering down the same chute.
* * * *
In every age, there are those rare few in any and every imaginable context,
Who awaken to the timeless awareness within all things great and small.
Some fashion what will become dogma; others wander serenely alone.
The mystery in which all equally reside gives its Self freely to any and all.
* * * *
One day or night in some long ago, intentionally or not,
Your mother and father merged their seed lines, and voilà, you.
The only question is, do you play out this dream according to their meme,
The established meme of some other groupthink, or your own?
* * * *
Point of reference, frame of reference, box of reference, matrix of reference, hologram of reference,
From small to large, each and every mind fabricates a unique rendering of a universe,
All ultimately nothing more than the endless spinnings of imagination.
* * * *
Whether quantum space-time is the function of the sensory-mind,
Or the sensory-mind the function of quantum space-time,
Or both are indivisible partners in awareness,
The resulting interweaving, the resulting dreamtime,
Is nothing more than a very real-seeming, figment of imagination,
Consciousness hypnotizing its Self into believing its timeless concoction real,
An illusory theater playing out every imaginable manifestation in every imaginable way.
* * * *
Across the planet throughout all time, every human being, every life form,
Playing its little quantum-chemical-biological-cultural patterning real,
To whatever degree awareness through consciousness perceives.
* * * *
Call it what you will: pattern, meme, array, form, display, shape,
Design, prototype, plan, model, outline, draft, scheme, blueprint;
It is what you imagine, it is what you pretend, not what you are.
* * * *
What were cave walls, what were clay tablets, what was papyrus,
What was Gutenberg’s printing press, what is the world wide web,
But progressing eruptions in humankind’s big bang of consciousness.
Whether or not there is anything like it out there in the vastness,
Is a question we will more than likely never find answer.
* * * *
It is in the winds of complete and attentive breathing,
That you will be as alive as the quantum dreamtime allows.
* * * *
What is eternal life but the ephemeral awareness you truly are,
Paying as much attention as possible to the one-moment-at-a-time universe,
To which the given sensory mind-body dreamtime of temporal consciousness subscribes.
* * * *
What is the cosmos but a massive, indivisible quantum matrix.
Matter patterned into every imaginable organic and inorganic permutation.
Continuously changing, altering, shifting, fluctuating, mingling, consuming, emanating, evolving.
A mechanism so beyond-all-bounds incredible as to be forever boggling.
And however you may or may not partake the truth of it,
You are it, and it is you, there is no other.
* * * *
What is real meditation
But the turning off of time-bound imagination
For a brief wander in eternity.
* * * *
The momentary awareness perceives through the senses
What the mind born of the quantum essence has engineered.
Always something to see, to hear, to touch, to taste, to smell,
Yet ever the eternal nothingness in each and every while.
* * * *
Everything spun of consciousness is nothing more than the wind of imagination.
And there is no need to kowtow to any of its countless fabrications.
Despite what the middlemen would have you believe,
There is no deity that does not include you in its conception,
And bowing and scraping to any idol is but the absurdity of vanity.
* * * *
The closest thing to free will, to self-determination, to freedom of choice,
In this infinitely choiceless universe fashioned of every imaginable patterning,
Is the timeless awareness of the quantum essence from which all things stream forth.
* * * *
Is organized religion really anything more
Than a vain rationale to be absurdly delusional
To whatever nth degree consciousness allows.
* * * *
So many things you said, so many things you did not say.
So many things you did, so many things you did not do.
So many ecstasies, so many agonies, in this dream of time.
* * * *
Observe the mind and its many thoughts,
What are they but a muddle of conditioned patterning,
Founded upon whatever perceptions, whatever frame of reference,
Imagination has arbitrarily formulated in the winds
Of the given nature-nurture dreamtime.
* * * *
What is identity but the psychological adaptation to the given nature-nurture circumstance.
The personality you project, the character you portray, is but an imaginary fabrication,
Sculpted by the dreamtime your spirit has from conception every moment endured.
* * * *
The egocentric nature of human consciousness
Has always believed itself and all its fabrications
Far more important that they will ever, can ever be.
* * * *
So much make-work, so much make-play, so much make-whatever,
In this our busy-busy, vanity-vanity, absurdity-absurdity paradigm.
* * * *
Awareness, that which is prior to consciousness,
That which is prior even to the quantum indivisibility,
Is the mysterious potential from whence all things manifest,
The matchless singularity, prior to one, much less two.
* * * *
From pleasure palace to torture chamber, in solitary confinement all the while,
The mind-body’s neural highways play out its dream in ways beyond counting.
* * * *
What do you think all this is founded on, if not the indivisible primal source,
The quantum matrix of timeless origin, the one-and-only oneness given over to space-time,
Creator and creation in the one-in-all-and-all-in-one grand singularity,
The awareness in which all dreamtimes spring.
* * * *
Stepping on the toes of political correctness is always a chuckle.
Imagine if you said or did everything that came to mind.
It would be a padded cell or the guillotine for sure.
* * * *
The world is full of true believers entangled in one conviction or another.
What it is matters less than whether or not it can be colored black or white.
* * * *
To all belief systems that imagine god separate,
Why would you ever cater to such limited concept?
To a notion that does not include you one in the same?
* * * *
Memory of any thing is never the thing itself.
Memory is the architect of time.
Reality is timeless.
* * * *
The limits of perception are obvious,
The doors of perception, immeasurable.
* * * *
Yet another millennial whose mother never told him life is not fair,
Another millennial who got too many participant trophies,
Another millennial who got too many inflated grades,
And really-truly believes they mean something.
* * * *
What is history but a perpetual game, to which chess and go and dominos are but artless analogies.
It is an ever-streaming, ever-emanating, ever-graceful, temporal play of consciousness.
Imagination given context in the hologram-matrix of quantum space-time.
* * * *
Conscious breathing, the awareness of every inhale, every exhale,
Is as present as present can be in the matrix hologram born of mind.
* * * *
No matter the speculation, no matter the assertion, it always ends up being the same inexplicable mystery.
So what is the point of endlessly arguing, much less slaying others who will never see it the same.
Discern the tranquility of an agnostic framelessness of mind, and make that your harbor.
* * * *
What is it we label God by countless names but all things quantum,
Including the timeless awareness you believe your own,
Peering out through the given sensory array.
Duality is illusion; all is singularity.
Thou art That I Am.
* * * *
What is known of the immeasurable reaches where the unknown reigns,
But the shimmering attributes that imagination adjudges real and true.
* * * *
Any given mind succumbs to the perjury of self-deception
As often as needed, to whatever degree delusion requires.
* * * *
You are as free as the mind is empty,
As free as the mind is naught but pure awareness,
As free as consciousness that has set aside any and all concern
For its Pandora’s Box hodgepodge of endless bothers.
* * * *
We are all just temporal recordings of consciousness,
Each and every one of us playing out one little meme or another.
Yet at the essential level, each and every one of us is the same quantum source,
Each and every one of us the same unfathomable awareness.
What is to argue about, what is to kill for?
* * * *
And why would not so-called God be so infinite as to include you in its creative process?
How ridiculous to believe your imaginary self separate in any way, any shape, any form.
* * * *
You may believe you have broken a habit, a pattern, an addiction,
But chances are, you have only exchanged it, morphed it, repackaged it,
Into another variation, another alteration, another mutation, of the same stripe.
A bottle, a needle, a god, any obsession, in what way are they different?
* * * *
Is it space-time that passes,
Or the awareness that travels a dream of time,
Ever steadfast, ever true.
* * * *
Illustrate, if you can, where you are in a mind that is still,
Where you are in the timeless quietude of pure awareness?
* * * *
Were the so-called seers and mystics and prophets in ancient times and places, early scientists?
Or merely charlatans taking advantage of fearful, gullible flocks for their own ends?
Any answers are but assertions of one unverifiable speculation or another,
But of the muddled, tangled histories played out since, we can be much more sure.
* * * *
Awareness sets in motion the pretense of existence.
The brain is but a fertile recording and processing apparatus,
That the senses permeate with an ever-present universe,
In which the mind plays out its imaginary theater.
* * * *
You could conceivably play anything out any way you please,
But the given genetic patterning, the given cultural conditioning, the given nature-nurture,
Have shaped your thoughts and actions to such a predictable degree,
That any assertion of free will is absurd.
* * * *
If you are the ever-present awareness every given moment offers,
What need for identity, or any other contrivance of consciousness.
* * * *
Your ancestors had their slice of dreamtime, you have yours,
And, if you have descendants, they will have theirs.
Do not feel the need to impose all your inanities upon them,
Past what is pragmatic for their fleeting portion of conscious design.
* * * *
Is any organized religion anything more than a parade, a carnival, a pageant, of idolatry?
Whether it be a persona, a boulder, a figurine, a set of writings, or merely a concept,
How is it anything but groupthink absurdity garnished in self-absorption?
* * * *
You are in no way, no shape, no form, separate from the totality of this mystery.
Call it what you will – God, Brahman, Tao, Buddha, Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, turtles ad infinitum,
All dualistic notion is founded upon believing the illusions body and mind weave,
Upon believing the ever-kaleidoscoping sensory input real.
* * * *
Let us differentiate between reality and perceptions of reality.
The former ever is, and all the latters are figments of imagination.
* * * *
Just what ‘part’ of the mind-body-spirit do you believe is immortal,
If not the indivisible awareness, that vast totality both within and without,
In which within or without are nothing more than confabulations of imagination.
* * * *
To be the undying awareness is to wander without attachment to the dream of mind,
To endure, free of time, free of all the agonies and ecstasies imagination musters into notion.
Eternal existence is for the rarest of the rare, those few and far flung who render themselves whole.
One must be absolutely fearless to ascertain the immutable immortality
They are, have ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
Just too fucking annoying sometimes, the price life requires,
The unceasingly heavy toll consciousness so often metes out.
* * * *
Life is full of every imaginable pain, every variety of suffering.
Some are long forgotten, but some persist ever-present,
And fold into each other like subprime mortgages
Until they twist into debilitating default.
Ain’t nothing Golden Pond about growing old.
* * * *
Who is the who, who desires? Who is the who, who fears?
Who is the who, who plays out any action, plays out any passion,
But the indivisible awareness cloaked by the attachment of consciousness
To the mind-body presenting itself, pretending itself, colluding itself, real and true.
* * * *
The entire human spectacle, and all its countless histories,
Is nothing more than ever-changing, temporal, imaginary perception.
A make-it-up-as-we-go, spontaneous kind of thing, that really is not any thing at all.
A holographic dream, which all are genetically programmed, culturally conditioned, to play along.
An enigmatic quantum reverie: nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Very bemusing to all concerned, indeed, indeed.
* * * *
Consciousness is the source of all disparity.
In the quantum indivisibility, there are none.
* * * *
All notion is nothing more than filtered imagination.
Perception may be all, but it is nothing all the while.
* * * *
It is the rare few who are called to journey outside the boxes of limited thinking,
Where the imaginary vastness of consciousness dances without consequence.
What need for wings of wax when all the suns of the universe abide within.
* * * *
What is the world, the universe, but a baggage train of notions
Slung about by imagination as if it were real and true.
As if it was more than a nebulous collection
Of pluses and minuses streaming about a neuron matrix.
Discern the awareness you are, disentangle from thought, wander unbound.
* * * *
A good toke of clean, fresh, oxygenated air,
Is far more likely to steady that passionate mind
Than any neural contortion of consciousness.
* * * *
One of the many disturbing discoveries in this vanity-vanity existence
Is that you are likely not as intelligent or powerful or important
As you might have in more youthful moments once believed.
* * * *
No point worrying about death, it is going to happen one way or another.
Whether the means is infection, cancer, blood, endocrine, mental, nervous, circulatory,
Respiratory, digestive, musculoskeletal, genitourinary, perinatal, congenital, or some external cause.
The flesh and bones to which you are so attached is fated to melt back into the indivisibility.
If is useless, and vain hope for something more, nothing but idle speculation.
So it goes, deal with it, get over it, keep moving while you can.
* * * *
Suffer not the vain, puny, frivolous deities concocted by consciousness
Convoluted assumptions and endless absurdities do not for truth make.
* * * *
The electromagnetic spectrum changes. the chemistry changes,
The body changes, the mind changes, the world changes, the universe changes,
But the awareness, that which perceives that which exists only in imagination, is ever the same,
Unborn, undying, each and every indivisible, indelible, enigmatic moment.
* * * *
And what has all that pride, all that vanity, gotten you, really,
But yet another life, yet another existence, yet another dream of time,
To which only the ever-evaporating vapor of imagination clings.
* * * *
What anyone thinks, what anyone does,
Is absolutely nothing in the ultimate mind’s eye.
All judgment is but human concoction, human absurdity.
* * * *
Granted, little boys may be made of snips and snails and puppy-dogs' tails,
But little girls, despite all fairy tale indoctrination to the contrary,
Are most definitely not sugar and spice and everything nice.
Going overboard on surreal notions is a bumpy road to delusion.
* * * *
You are but an imaginary blend,
A concoction born of the nature-nurture dreamtime
Into which your temporal seed was cast.
* * * *
You have been hypnotized, conditioned, brainwashed, mesmerized, indoctrinated, deceived,
Into imagining you are what you are not, have never been, and will never be.
In the one and only indivisible reality prior to consciousness,
You are timeless, you are without bounds.
Know this and break free of all limits born of mind.
* * * *
But for the currents of consciousness,
It is as quantum indivisible on the inside
As it is quantum indivisible on the outside.
* * * *
The world is afire with the madness of humankind’s incessant vanity.
What is there to hope for when faced with such insurmountable odds.
* * * *
All creation is nothing more than a subjective reality,
Born of the human mind, born of imaginary conception.
Objectivity can never be more than an unattainable notion.
* * * *
Jews claiming they are the chosen people
Is nothing more than yet another ethnocentric absurdity.
It would be analogous to Woody Allen asserting he is God’s favorite thespian.
No offence, Woody, but it just ain’t ever gonna be so.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how can any dreamer perform their imaginary character,
But through the nature-nurture sculpting assigned by the genetic lottery.
Embrace it or endure it, from all beginning to all endings,
We are all just prisoners here, of our own device.
* * * *
What is any human existence but a tentative, arbitrary collection of memories,
Perceptions of a dream of time forever forgotten with the last wheezing breath.
* * * *
The irony is that this garden world
Has freely provided everything humankind needs
To drive its brief little dream into complete and utter extinction.
* * * *
Who is the I that believes this awareness their own,
But a brief fiction of imagination entirely alone.
* * * *
All time, all history, all narration, whether individual or cultural,
Is nothing more than the play of consciousness, a paradigm of imagination.
All illusion, all delusion, all nothing more than the existential collusion of memory cells.
You are, have ever been, will ever be, the ever-present, right-here-right-now of eternal awareness,
The singular observer, the solitary wanderer, in the infinite-infinitesimal
Of nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
The eternal life offered by pure awareness is the one and only true religion.
It has no name, and requires no faith, no scripture, no dogma,
No idols, no symbols, no priesthood, no followers.
Those who believe otherwise muddle in the fog of vanity.
* * * *
Contemplation is about consciousness
Putting your imaginary universe in perspective.
Meditation is about being the awareness you actually are.
* * * *
What difference between provincial and cosmopolitan, really,
But arbitrary variations in the shaping forces of nature and nurture.
After all, imagination is just imagination is just imagination.
* * * *
All patterns are created of illusion.
From the indivisible, all creation arises, all creation subsides.
There is naught but eternal unicity.
* * * *
The explorer of consciousness is very much alone
In the maze-like concourses of the eternal fabric,
The imaginary hologram of the passionate mind.
* * * *
Baal is Baal, Tao is Tao, Brahman is Brahman, Buddha is Buddha, Allah is Allah, God is God,
No conception devised by consciousness can ever be more than a temporal metaphor.
The unknowable, ineffaceable truth of this mystery is timelessly indivisible.
Infinitely, infinitesimally, omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient.
* * * *
The indelible mystery you indivisibly are, is neither friend nor enemy.
It is indifferent to all imaginary notions, indifferent to all temporal attributes.
What attachment can that which creates and preserves and destroys,
Without motive, without remorse, have to anything?
* * * *
This here-now is what you are, is what you have been all along, is what you will ever be.
The sensory dreamtime is but imagination steeped in illusion,
Is but a mirage cloaked by delusion.
* * * *
Being domesticated, being cultivated, being trained, as a human being,
Does not make you any closer to godness than any other life form.
Every single beast has evolved from the same quantum origin.
The only difference between you and any other organism
Is an inexorable egocentricity born entirely of imaginary notion.
The entire human drama is nothing more than a collusion of consciousness,
Made possible by the evolutionary happenstance of an ingenious, group-oriented mind,
Two arms, two legs, a larynx, opposable thumbs, and high-capacity lungs.
All the critters born into this mystery did not stand a chance.
And, being far too clever for our own good,
Neither, ultimately, do we.
* * * *
How could the observer not be the observed
In this indivisible, kaleidoscoping, quantum mystery theater?
Pfft, even the most supreme being humankind can ever imagine knows that.
* * * *
Who is there to prove anything to, really?
Apart from an imaginary vanity-vanity show,
What more is there than the quantum beingness?
What more is there than awareness of the singularity?
* * * *
The human drama is rooted, is steeped, is bound, in vain notion.
It is nothing more than the perpetual confabulation of imagination.
What solution can there ever be to what was never real from the get-go?
* * * *
All those thoughts, all those desires, all those fears, all those emotions;
What are they really ultimately but the illusory poof of imagination.
* * * *
Quantum brain, quantum eyes, quantum ears, quantum nose, quantum tongue, quantum skin,
Quantum nerves, quantum ductless glands, quantum viscera, quantum everything.
A quantum matrix, a quantum hologram, by and for its Self to play,
Perchance to perceive, to realize, to comprehend, its inexplicable mystery.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how creates this kaleidoscoping theater of dreamtime,
But the eternal awareness neither within nor without the quandaries of imagination.
* * * *
And why would anyone ever believe any one culture in any given time,
Would ever hold the key to truth, or be favored by any one deity?
* * * *
There is only the here-now, there is only eternal life.
All vain notions about it are ultimately meaningless.
Be anonymous within and without, free of all claims.
* * * *
Where is the apex of the human drama?
Where is the point of diminishing returns?
Have we yet to pass over the bell curve’s peak?
Or is it already a memory in the rear-view mirror?
* * * *
All those memories, all those things, all those sensations, all those thoughts,
All those patterns, dreams, habits, relationships, loves, likes, hates, joys, sorrows,
Skills, awards, derisions, pleasures, beliefs, opinions, notions, hopes, fears, ad infinitum,
All those many experiences, no matter how dear, must all eventually be released and forgotten.
* * * *
Within the pool of awareness,
All possible universes, all possible dreams, dwell.
The creative potential of the quantum essence is infinitely choiceless.
* * * *
What you perceive is but a quantum veil that the sensory mind arbitrarily measures.
Of the immeasurable from which all dreams manifest, there is nothing to be known.
* * * *
Who is more foolish, the writer who penned nonsense in some ancient past,
Or the babbling dittoheads who give it true-believer weight in the here now?
* * * *
What is any worldview, any frame of reference, any paradigm,
But an imaginary state to which the mind every moment clings.
* * * *
Every organism under any given star has a completely different translation of the universe.
Which begs the question, is there even a real universe that stands alone and true?
Or are all nothing more than unique, arbitrary quantum creations,
Done and undone and done again times beyond counting.
Light dancing its Self manifest, for whatever forever dreamtime allows.
* * * *
If there is ever to be any real revolution of consciousness in this human paradigm,
It will have to begin within the plebeian minds of the wayward mob.
Holding your breath may not be the best strategy.
* * * *
To many unanswerable questions in this dreamtime mystery,
Always springing up here and there like zombies in the fields.
* * * *
What can any human being, no matter the time, no matter the geography, ever really experience,
But their own unique egocentric-ethnocentric-geocentric-heliocentric sensory universe.
That which is perceived through their unique nature-nurture frame of reference.
Every part and particle of it born entirely of subjective, self-absorbed, imaginary notion.
* * * *
How ironic.
How paradoxical.
How absurd.
* * * *
Everything in this touchy-feely-three-dimensional-space-time dream
Is ultimately nothing more than quantum illusion.
Yes, absolutely all of it.
* * * *
How would any of this be if the awareness you truly are were not bound to the mind-body,
If you were not attached to all the notions inspired by the sensory dream.
The universe did not exist before the unborn was born.
It will not exist after the unborn dies.
Die to it now.
Eternal life is yours for the being.
* * * *
What is prior to religion, prior to doctrine, prior to faith, prior to belief,
Prior to all notions of gods and devils and their myriad minions,
And the countless heavens and hells they spawn in time.
* * * *
What a strange thing it is to hear, to see, any word, any concept,
And realize all the antiquity it took for it to evolve to this point in time,
And that it, and all the other words in the sea of metaphors in which it swims,
Shall ever continue to morph for as long as human consciousness manages to survive.
* * * *
There will always be true believers willing to live and die
For whatever cause they have discerned most noble and true.
* * * *
Whatever path to glory might be devised by any given mind,
It is ever nothing more than the vanity born of imagination.
* * * *
What is awareness? What is consciousness?
A chemical reaction? An electromagnetic storm? A quantum wind?
The unknown playing known? Nothing playing something?
A stream unto its Self, however mind conceives.
* * * *
Happiness and contentment are delusional ideals born of sorrow and dissatisfaction.
Consciousness ever ebbs and flows through the ductless glands and viscera.
Abiding in the moment, in the awareness prior to all the chatter,
Is the as-good-as-it-gets any given mind can offer.
* * * *
What pattern is not born of conscious design,
And why would the quantum ground, the source of all,
Be bound by any notion, no matter how grand?
* * * *
Outside the last box is that awareness prior to consciousness,
And where can any box abide in that which is indivisible.
* * * *
Contentment, satisfaction, gratification,
What are they but variations of the vanity-vanity,
The usual suspect steeping in every moment of conscious design.
* * * *
The mystery is prior to all thought, prior to all knowledge, prior to all emotion, prior to all passion,
Prior to all language, all science, all math, all music, all everything ignited by consciousness.
It is the primal awareness from which the unknowable bursts into timeless creation.
* * * *
Eternal peace is merging into the indivisibly, the aloneness, free of attributes.
Giving the world no thought: some call it heaven, some call it madness.
What matter what any other thinks, what any other believes?
* * * *
This quantum theater is never more real than a dream.
The awareness you are is never not the witness.
The only question is whether or not you are aware of it.
And from all beginnings to all endings, and all endings to all beginnings,
It really does not matter if you wake up to it or not.
It never did, it never will.
* * * *
The so-called scriptures are not really belief systems.
They are histories, archives, field guides, instruction manuals, schemas.
Insights set down by seers across time and space who have discerned the mystery firsthand.
Does the quantum indivisibility need to worship the forms into which it is made,
Some imagined sculptor, or the essence that is its truest nature?
Does it really need to venerate anything at all?
Is not simply being enough?
* * * *
There is the wacko two-legged in the first standard deviation: we call that normal.
The second, we call eccentric; the third, crazy; and beyond that, insane.
Really all just different shades of the same monkey-mind.
* * * *
The discernment of truth in the human mind, in the human paradigm,
Has really always been very much the same across the world throughout time.
But all those who see it are bound by the filters of their conditioning: bound by culture;
Bound by creed; bound by language; bound by ego; bound by the thirst for power, fame, fortune;
Bound by the seven deadly intoxications: pride, envy, gluttony, lust, wrath, greed, sloth;
Bound by the perpetual tango of desire and fear in the quest for security.
Is it any wonder that these modern times are so chaotic,
So confused, so conflicted, so contrary,
That only the rare are willing and able to see past
The incalculable differences entirely created by imagination.
* * * *
Of course, there is what many, by one name, by one concept, by one dogma or another, call god.
But the fundamental reality is that it is a timeless, indivisible, unattainable mystery,
That cannot be bound by any form, by any circumstance, by any creed.
It is not some dualistic invention like a Zeus, a Jupiter, a Shiva, or a Santa Claus.
It is not a deity, a goddess, a divine being, a celestial being, a divinity, an immortal, or an avatar.
It is not an idol, a graven image, an icon, a totem, a talisman, a fetish, or a juju.
Of course there is a god, and it includes the essence you truly are.
Do not confuse any fabrications of consciousness
With the reality of awareness.
* * * *
In truth, you have no past, you have no future.
You are but a subjective dream of consciousness, of imagination.
There is only now, there is only awareness, there is only quantum, there is only eternity,
Timelessly witnessing an indivisible, kaleidoscoping, sensory play.
* * * *
Your world, your cosmos, your dream, is an imaginary invention,
Founded upon the sensory input, as interpreted by your patterned mind.
However you see anything unfolding, is what it is, always was, and will ever be.
Whatever you imagine others think, they think; whatever you imagine others do, they do.
You are perceiver, witness, observer, viewer, watcher, eyewitness, onlooker, bystander, ogler, spectator.
You are the one and only awareness, acting out a programmed, conditioned, habituated persona.
Immortally absolute, indelibly sovereign, timelessly unconditional, eternally indivisible,
And unutterably, irrefutably alone, in your center stage of Self-consciousness.
* * * *
To discern your true Self, to discern the awareness that is source,
Is to discern all possibilities upon which imagination might draw.
* * * *
Trust your Self.
Trust your own mind.
Trust your own awareness.
Trust your own perception.
Trust your own intuition.
Find your own way,
You, scientist.
* * * *
You are the only one and only observer watching you.
All the deities, all the angels, all the demons, all the avatars,
All the santa clauses, tooth fairies, and other mythological creatures,
Are nothing more than figments of imagination given credence.
You, the singular aloneness, are the one and only witness.
* * * *
What is each and every imagination-born existence, but a brief window of history.
A brief flickering of light and shadow, playing out in the dreamtime of mind.
A brief span in which awareness witnesses a timeless creation born of consciousness.
A kaleidoscoping quantum theater playing itself real over and over in every conceivable way.
* * * *
You who give the mind over to its inexplicable source,
Will never be appreciated unconditionally by the human paradigm.
Thought and emotion are but evolutionary by-products of ductless glands and viscera.
It is not possible to gain the full acceptance of any meme, any group, any followers, any true believers,
Any brainwashed, conditioned, indoctrinated collusion to which consciousness is so attached,
For the capricious mix is incapable of comprehending that which is cradle to all.
You must, in awareness, stand very much alone, flawlessly absolute.
* * * *
Without the thought, the idea, the notion,
The brainwave, the inspiration, the theory, the belief,
The concept, the opinion, the plan, the conception, the philosophy,
How would the imaginary identity you delude your awareness into pretending
Play out its meme-bound who-what-where-when-why-how collusion?
* * * *
There appear to be many others of every imaginable variety,
But it is all really truly the awareness you very much alone are,
Translating the sensory play as the ever-present now unfolds.
The singular you, chattering away to your Self, so to speak.
* * * *
There is nothing in this manifest dreamtime to which you can ultimately cling.
You are awash in imaginary notion, and if that gradually dissipates,
Where can you ever be but the given right-here-right-now,
As infinitely, as infinitesimally immeasurable,
As the mystery of awareness ever is.
* * * *
The entire human spectacle, with all its histories, whether written and unwritten,
Is nothing more than collusion founded upon the capricious spark of imagination.
* * * *
That which you imagine you are is replete with every sort of passion and pain and regret.
That mystery which you truly are, that which is prior to consciousness, is indivisibly immaculate.
The mind is a collection of perceptions to which unmitigated detachment is the only salvation.
* * * *
Whether or not there are other dream worlds,
Other Gaias out in the immensity of the indifferent universe,
We will likely never know because we have not valued our own world enough
To insure our survival for more than a relatively few minutes in the space-time continuum.
The clock is tick-tick-ticking, and we are rushing madly towards extinction,
Or certainly a very harsh, very downsized paradigm shift.
* * * *
Dreaming itself immortal,
Consciousness is indelibly linked
To the finite creation of quantum design.
* * * *
We are all the same oneness playing out the parts, the same oneness playing out the many.
We are all a kaleidoscoping hologram of inestimable, immeasurable, infinite proportion,
A quantum matrix emanating a dream of time in the timeless indivisibility of eternity.
* * * *
To be vulnerable is the challenge of complete surrender to the moment.
To be totally open without the psychic walls of the me-myself-and-I,
To the ego that is nothing more than a castle built of imagination.
* * * *
Your imaginary personality is how your awareness adapted
To the winds of the nature-nurture into which you were cast.
It is but a temporary temporal thing; best not get too attached.
* * * *
In this manifest dreamtime world, history has countless times proven that might makes right.
As Vegetius put it in De Re Militari: si vis pacem, para bellum, if you want peace, prepare for war.
Anonymity is the first line of defense, the second is to be a chameleon, to avoid becoming a target.
From then on – care you to abide, care you to survive – whatever level of readiness is required.
* * * *
It is only in imagination that all players are fashioned.
The grand holograph is seamless; there is no other.
The inscrutable indivisible is without partition.
All withouts are within, all withins, without.
* * * *
Is it the quantum universe that creates the quantum mind?
Or is it the quantum mind that creates the quantum universe?
Or are they the same quantum creating each other,
This very much the same moment?
Yet another dreamy day,
Same old chicken or egg conundrum.
* * * *
The ever-motionless awareness of the eternal mind
Is prior to all movement of consciousness,
And the myriad attachments therein.
* * * *
Why would you want to follow anyone?
Why would you want anyone to follow you?
Both are but the endless narcissism of vain notion,
The imaginary saga of the self-absorbed mind.
* * * *
Once upon a timeless in some long ago, an ancestor sat on a branch alone,
When another ancestor nearby uttered a sound that s/he thought s/he understood.
Thus fell the metaphorical fruit of knowledge, of good and evil,
And the solitude of the garden dreamscape
Was, for a brief spate of the mind born of time, undone.
* * * *
To be caught in the web of time
Is to play out the death born of imagination.
Only in the timelessness of eternal awareness can existence
Be as real as the quantum dreamtime allows.
* * * *
Stars and planets stream silently about the heavens, oblivious to your vain existence,
And all the passions that play out the ceaseless dramas in your hollow imagination.
* * * *
The moment, the instant, the second, the minute,
The jiffy, the flash, the tick, the twinkling, the trice:
What are they but concept after concept after concept,
Consciousness ever trifling the timelessness of awareness.
* * * *
What an isolating thing, the groupthink of any tradition.
All attempts of consciousness to bring together
Only further and further splinter.
* * * *
Your ego, your vanity, wants to matter so much, but in reality it does not, never did, never will.
You are a brief dream of awareness: nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Find harbor in the futility, the uselessness, the pointlessness,
The worthlessness, the fruitlessness, of it all.
* * * *
Everything about the dreamtime of human consciousness
Is generated from two primal forces: sustenance and procreation.
All the vanities, all quests for power and fame and fortune
Are marinated in those two interwoven hungers.
* * * *
It is only imagination that feels happy or sorry or anything else for its imaginary self.
Imagination ever-translating the ever-streaming sensory perceptions
Into endless shades of emotional gratification.
How can the timeless awareness prior to consciousness
Feel anything for the nothingness from which it springs eternal?
* * * *
Every imaginable bread-and-circus interruption and diversion and agitation,
Has made its way into conscious design, and daily more, more, more.
What superficial, pathetic creatures human beings truly are.
* * * *
So much time already passed, so much history already written,
How much more can be left in this dream of human consciousness?
* * * *
The hatred that gives so many lives meaning
Is but a finite mortal dream from beginning to end.
And what is hate but the fear, the dread, of all things different.
* * * *
How long will you recall things that do not matter?
How long will you cling to things that were never important?
How long will you abide the infliction of illusion upon your awareness?
This is your brief dream to live, or not live, as your courage to stand alone allows.
* * * *
Your universe is really nothing more than neurological sensations, electrical-chemical reactions,
And the many perceptions, the voluntary-involuntary responses and reactions,
Filtered by the attachment of consciousness to them.
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.
* * * *
Sometimes angel, sometimes demon, what matter either way, really.
Gods are but the contrivance of the dread of imagination,
And an insistent hope for what can never be.
* * * *
Time is as imaginary, as ethereal, as intangible, as vaporous, as fictional,
As illusory as the given mind from which it like cotton candy springs.
* * * *
You have imagined who.
You have imagined what. You have imagined where.
You have imagined when. You have imagined why. You have imagined how.
You have imagined everything the quantum mirage has allowed.
Now imagine the nothing from which all sally forth.
* * * *
Discern the primordial awareness prior to consciousness.
Stay with that timeless moment, that stillness,
And know the serenity of eternity.
* * * *
How absurd to believe anyone is watching you.
How absurd to believe no one is watching you.
* * * *
Something else and something more, always distracting,
Always agitating, always disordering, always disturbing, always confusing,
Always tugging the mind ever forth in the dream of time.
* * * *
All we think we know is but a grain of sand in an infinity of unknowable unknownness,
And in reality all our invention is nothing more than the happenstance
Of our own genetically habituated imagination.
It is all a mystery, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
Many a label is designated to undermine the power of the thing itself.
It is the grappling of consciousness with its ever-kaleidoscoping,
Ever unyielding wheel of creation-preservation-destruction.
* * * *
Buddha has already played.
So have Jesus and Rumi and Nietzsche.
It is your turn now to whirl your way in dreamtime.
No need to follow or imitate anyone else.
* * * *
Where are within and without
When all barriers are but the illusion
Of the sensory mind-body born of imagination.
The indivisibility of the quantum scale knows no bounds.
* * * *
Who are you or I? Who is he or she? Who is we or they?
So many dualistic distinctions born of consciousness,
And its myriad delusions born of sensory illusion.
* * * *
The you, you imagine your Self to be,
Is but the barest sliver of a sliver of a sliver
Of that which is, and is not, totality.
* * * *
To comprehend reincarnation, re-embodiment, rebirth, re-creation, reawakening,
You must discern what it is, and what it is not, that is born anew.
That the same essence in one permeates all,
And that all are but the one in every guise imaginable.
* * * *
The human paradigm is immersed in the stew of its own self-made knowledge.
The mind’s voracious, insatiable, craving-to-know nature blinds itself.
The screens, the veils, the shrouds, the divisions of knowledge,
No matter how scholarly, no matter how insightful,
Are the source, the creator of all delusion.
The space-time matrix, as tangibly real as it seems,
Is but the invention of an imagination-laced quantum dream.
* * * *
You need not allow the world into your eternal sovereignty,
Unless you feel like being mesmerized by the quantum illusion,
And all the habituated conditioning it has in the given mind stirred.
* * * *
Take away your family, your friends, your acquaintances, your adversaries, your enemies,
Your work, your hobbies, your things, your pets, your memories, your reveries.
Take away all the parts and pieces, all the trappings of your existence,
And what remains but an indescribably ephemeral awareness,
To which no thought, no appendage, can ever attach.
* * * *
The mind is an ever-stirring brew of erstwhile knowing; of knowing this, of knowing that.
But until it truly discerns that it knows nothing but its own imaginary concoctions,
It can never be free of its endless self-delusions, its endless self-deceptions.
It can never rediscover the child mind that perceives the given moment ever anew.
* * * *
Cheerleaders for delusion live in a bubble of unreality.
It is completely wacko to think there is any possibility
That there is some sort of happy ending to this fiasco.
* * * *
Like a hamster running madly, getting nowhere in its spinning wheel,
The mind is ever questing security in its dream of temporal persuasion.
* * * *
At best you might do something
That might slightly spin history some new direction,
But what is history but imaginary notion
Given credence by the same.
* * * *
What ever-present instant is not of eternity?
Only the countless dualistic notions of consciousness,
With all its delusions born of desire and fear,
Would have you believe otherwise.
* * * *
Dualistic notion is but a fabrication of imagination.
All opposites are equally true, equally false,
Equally everything, equally nothing.
* * * *
Is your inner default setting consciousness or awareness?
Are you the imaginary figment, the mortal you?
Or are you the eternal immortal You?
* * * *
What perception has ever been real?
What perception has ever been more than an imaginary notion,
Combining with other notions to make a sizable collage of arbitrary notions in each and every mind;
The synergy of which compounds into a very much unrehearsed human paradigm.
All history is nothing more than the perpetual vanity of consciousness
Playing its make-believe game of space and time real.
* * * *
If you are practicing some sort of idolatry, then you, my friend, are stuck.
If you have a conclusion founded on some sort of mythology,
Some sort of fairy tale, some sort of fantasy, some sort of mind gorp,
Then your doubt has stalled, and you are as stuck as imagination can enable.
The only question is whether you can rekindle the skepticism and carry on the quest.
* * * *
The persona is the harbor of attachment,
Ever-changing throughout the rumored existence,
All obliterated with the last wheezing breath,
Never more than imagination allows.
* * * *
Science and politics are mutually-exclusive dynamics.
To politicize science is an absolute absurdity foisted
By blatant obfuscation of its point and purpose.
* * * *
Time rises and falls in every mind,
And is but a biological mutation in the evolution of humankind.
It does not truly exist as anything more than the mind-made, imaginary notion of consciousness.
There is only this now … and now this now … and now this now … and now this now …
An immeasurable quantum matrix, ever-kaleidoscoping, eternally indivisible.
* * * *
Curious how the apostates, the absconders, the true believers,
Always accuse everyone else of that which they are most guilty.
* * * *
There is no you; there is no me-myself-and-I.
There is only awareness confined in a corporeal configuration,
And imagination creating everything under the sun.
* * * *
To believe you can change anything
In the patterning running this merry show
Is absurdly laughable to the nth degree.
* * * *
What is any world, any universe,
But an illusory dream constructed by the senses.
Naught but a neural veil, a sensory shroud, a quantum vibration,
Of imagination creating much ado about nothing.
* * * *
Creation and creator,
How can they possibly be separate
But through imagination’s endless confabulation?
* * * *
It is imagination, not awareness, that identifies with the mind-body.
Consciousness creates a world, a cosmos, to which awareness is but witness,
Absolutely detached – separate, apart, disconnected, isolated – in every which way.
* * * *
Here we are, staring into our many screens,
Passively questing every imaginable distraction.
What did paltry Rome know of bread and circuses?
* * * *
In every yes, a no; in every no, a yes.
In every truth, a lie; in every lie, a truth.
In every good; a bad; in every bad; a good.
In every vague, an exact; in every exact, a vague.
In every infinite, a finite; in every finite, an infinite.
In every unknown, a known; in every known, an unknown.
In every intangible, a tangible; in every tangible, an intangible.
In every abundance, a shortage; in every shortage, an abundance.
In every superiority, an inferiority; in every inferiority, a superiority.
In every inexplicable, an explicable; in every explicable, an inexplicable.
In every immeasurable, a measurable; in every measurable, an immeasurable.
In every intelligible, an inscrutable; in every inscrutable, an intelligible.
In every open hand, a closed fist; in every closed fist, an open hand.
In every creation, a destruction; in every destruction, a creation.
In every brilliance, a dullness; in every dullness, a brilliance.
In every positive, a negative; in every negative, a positive.
In every logic, an absurdity; in every absurdity, a logic.
In every blessing, a curse; in every curse, a blessing.
In every deep, a shallow; in every shallow, a deep.
In every right, a wrong; in every wrong, a right.
In every large, a small; in every small, a large.
In every whole, a part; in every part, a whole.
In every plus, a minus; in every minus, a plus.
In every savant, a fool; in every fool, a savant.
In every gray, a gray; in every gray, more gray.
* * * *
You are playing the script of space-time's patterning,
But you are not the script, you are not the part,
You are not the body, you are not the mind.
It is all nothing more than a quantum dream.
* * * *
Of awareness it can be said: This is it, this is all there is.
Everything else is imagination born of sensory illusion.
* * * *
How could any man-made concoction
Ever have any ultimate, accurate, truthful answers to anything?
Only in the stillness of awareness is the one and only conclusion discerned, and it is serenity.
And it is the end to all uncertainty, to all speculation, all concern,
Over what is knowable, and what is not.
* * * *
You need not meditate with others for consciousness
To merge back into the awareness which you ever alone are.
The within and without the without and within that are and are not.
* * * *
The endless attempts by the consciousness born of mind
To mold reality into static concepts will ever soundly fail.
* * * *
Regarding it as only a dream requires the end
Of the who-what-where-when-why-how
Upon which imagination anchors.
* * * *
All histories are ever forgotten or misconstrued or revised,
As they were never more than make-believe from the get-go.
* * * *
Pretending there is precision in words,
How absurdly wearing.
Just be.
* * * *
Eternity, the mystery that is prior to consciousness, is immaculate, unblemished, spotless,
Unsullied, undefiled, untarnished, perfect, flawless, faultless, pure, pristine,
Impeccable, stainless, pure, virtuous, incorrupt, above reproach.
The so-called Original Sin is really about separation,
About being born into the dream of time,
About being born into mind.
And given that there is no choice in the matter,
Given that no creature has ever had any voice in its being born,
What sin, what wickedness, what offense, what estrangement, can there truly be?
To be timelessly present is to erase all notions that inspire the insipidity of creeds across the world.
* * * *
The timeless awareness of eternity is unconcerned what you do with your dream of time.
Only human vanity – egocentric, ethnocentric, geocentric, heliocentric – believes otherwise.
* * * *
From the upwelling, round many bends,
The river of the human paradigm,
The stream of consciousness,
Is rushing back to the sea of oblivion.
* * * *
How immaculate the moment you are.
Only in imagination are you tainted.
* * * *
Imagination, from whence all stories arise, into which all stories recede.
A statistical ripple as indivisibly predictable as any other quantum creation.
* * * *
What is, is.
What was, was.
What will be, will be.
Time is illusion.
Now is all.
* * * *
Once you have clearly discerned that it is all you,
Who is the giver, who is the taker? Who is born, who lives, who dies?
Who is the creator, who is the preserver, who is the destroyer?
It is but vain notion that subscribes to all distinctions.
* * * *
A story.
Another story.
And yet another story.
Story after story after story.
Mine, yours, his, hers, theirs, ours.
All equally imaginary from any beginning.
* * * *
Why on earth would it matter even one iota
Whether or not you are conscious to some other’s satisfaction?
This is your universe to witness however you will.
There is no prescribed format.
There is no other.
* * * *
Forget who you think you are, and all you think you know.
Be the awareness prior to consciousness with all its bothers
About who and what and where and when and why and how,
And all the logical and illogical designs to which mind subscribes.
* * * *
Partake whatever you will, the hunger for more, more, more,
Remains the insatiable constant of human consciousness.
Satisfaction and serenity are the realm of awareness.
* * * *
Truth cannot be taught, nor can it be unlearned.
It can, however, be soundly ignored, even forgotten.
* * * *
All histories, all stories, all accounts, all chronicles, all parables, all narratives,
All folklores, all legends, all myths, all sagas, all fables, all fairytales,
All tall tales, all fish stories, all jokes, all puns, all yarns,
All anecdotes, all witticisms, all descriptions,
Are imaginary from any get-go.
* * * *
No, you will not be back.
It is a one-time cabaret for each and every player.
Different strands of DNA, all witnessed by the same unborn-undying awareness.
Nothing personal about it, despite all notions to the contrary.
* * * *
All heavens, all hells, all purgatories between, pass ever the same.
All others are but sensory ghosts of consciousness’s imaginary design.
* * * *
The stillness, the eternal life of the awareness prior to consciousness,
What more could you possibly be than the supreme virtue of the eternal unicity?
Will there come a moment when you never again subscribe to the manifest quantum matrix?
Will there come a moment when the mind born of time no longer calls you?
* * * *
You have been brainwashed, hypnotized, conditioned, programmed,
Indoctrinated, molded, convinced, mesmerized, trained, habituated, spellbound, inured, compelled,
Into believing this world and all its creations are real and important.
Think again.
* * * *
The sensory mind-body evolved in DNA’s quest to continue,
To survive the creation, to abide the quantum field.
The vehicle you occupy is the result of that ever-present eternal dance,
And whether or not you continue to pass on that dream-state is a decision only time will tell.
* * * *
The creations of physics and chemistry and biology
Have again and again conspired to shape you, to pattern you,
Into a false identity that you might again and again awaken to your Self.
Is the matrix any more than a ruse to explore the mystery in every way imaginable?
* * * *
The many words, the many concepts of consciousness
Are but passing clouds in the clear sky of awareness.
* * * *
The past is only reference.
The future, only hope.
Only now is real.
* * * *
The hands of time spin the fate of humankind into an abyss of its own making.
Human consciousness cannot forever maintain the raging pace hat its insatiable nature ordains.
As any cockroach instinctively realizes, existence is a marathon, not a sprint.
* * * *
To pretend an identity does not mean you are forced to believe it.
You are the creator of your dreamtime world, your psychic prison,
And only reside there because desire and fear anchor your mind,
And draw you back again and again into the clutches of illusion.
* * * *
To pretend an identity does not mean you are forced to believe it.
You are the creator of your dreamtime world, your psychic prison,
And only reside there because desire and fear anchor your mind,
And draw you back again and again into the clutches of illusion.
* * * *
More, more, more … more power … more fame … more fortune …
More food … more sex … more castles … more things … more everything …
Enough is never enough for the many whose consciousness ever shines its light outward.
* * * *
Why would death be anything more to fear than falling asleep?
The only difference is no more dreaming and never again waking up.
* * * *
What is any world, any universe, any hologram, any matrix,
But a kaleidoscoping dream inspired by a sensory quantum feed.
A light and sound show vibrating away in the given mind’s neural trail.
* * * *
Extinction is an inherent, intractable fact of life.
Most of what you once remembered is long-forgotten.
Granted, it may still be locked somewhere in the neuron trail,
But for all practical purpose, access denied is the same as forgotten.
It was never more than vague, imaginary perception anyway,
So, oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
* * * *
What is sorrow but the mind’s longing for it all to be real.
For it to be more than a kaleidoscoping, ungraspable dream;
A dream that it is, that it has ever been, that it will ever be.
* * * *
The quantum divide is but the separation of the sensory mind,
Deluding itself, imagining that it is the indivisibility that is unreal.
Nothing more than the neuron trail asserting it alone reigns supreme.
* * * *
Each and every seed has its own epic journey, a one-time play in the space-time matrix.
A concoction of heaven and hell in an imaginary backdrop, real and unreal all the while.
* * * *
You are not the body-mind identity.
You are not consciousness.
You are not the world.
You are not the universe.
You are not the quantum stardust.
You are that which is prior to all creation.
You are the awareness, you are the indivisible unicity.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
There is no need to dread what you do not believe, what you do not distinguish real and true.
Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and monsters in dark forests, are but cultural memes for children,
As is everything rendered for adults adrift in the muddle of uncritical, gullible, credulous minds.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how is That I Am?
Who-what-where-when-why-how is that which we who forever quest,
Are ever seeking within, are ever seeking without; sailors wandering an ocean without shore.
Why is that which is everything and nothing, that which is nothing and everything,
So challenging for the vapor of consciousness to both embrace and resist?
* * * *
The body issues forth from the indelible quantum mystery;
From the merger of the seeds of male and female.
The brain gradually interprets the senses to engineer the mind of self.
The mind that is molded, sculpted, conditioned; the mind that ever bends to its given nurture,
To its environment, to its window of time, all fostered by the play of imagination.
An ever-expanding cosmos of consciousness burst into being;
Indelible quantum mystery all the while.
* * * *
To quantify the quantum mystery as infinite or infinitesimal is all but absurd,
Once it is without doubt realized that the enigma of awareness is immeasurable.
* * * *
Death is the outcome of every existence.
No need for hope nor faith nor any creed.
* * * *
We are all just actors here; players, thespians,
Automatically, spontaneously, extemporaneously,
Playing out the perceived, imaginary, temporal roles
Nature-nurture has patterned us to believe real and true,
But really no more real and true than any man in the moon.
* * * *
Beginning becomes end; end becomes beginning.
Wax becomes wane, wane becomes wax.
Rise becomes fall; fall become rise.
Flow becomes ebb; ebb becomes flow.
Cause becomes effect, effect becomes cause.
The dream of time is the play of waves ever roiling.
* * * *
Perfection in consciousness is but an ideal.
There are pluses and minuses to practically everything,
Unless you are Mary Poppins or some other imaginary fabrication.
Only in the indivisible nothingness of eternal awareness can perfection be realized.
* * * *
It is the body-mind’s instinctual patterning to always seek the illusion of security,
That gradually morphs it into so many variations of fear and loathing.
To stand aloof from the herd, to stand free and clear of all,
Is not a state, a quality of mind easily attained.
* * * *
There is life, there is no-life.
Consciousness on, consciousness off.
It is nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
Consciousness is a function of awareness,
But it is up to you to discern the implication
Of that far-reaching, life-changing realization.
* * * *
The mind-body is about the consumption of its quantum dreamtime in every way imaginable:
Food, drink, sex, power, fame, fortune, spirituality, materialism, et cetera, et cetera.
A unremitting quagmire, and ultimately all much ado about nothing.
As William Shakespeare puts it in Macbeth’s soliloquy:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
* * * *
The mind-body dream to which you are so attached
Is nothing more than a from-the-get-go fabrication.
* * * *
Abandon the mind and all its thoughts of identity and personality and character.
All the histories, all the narrations, all the time-bound concoctions you imagine real.
Be the awareness, the stillness, the emptiness, the nothingness, you timelessly are.
* * * *
Why would truth ever require meaning and purpose,
When it already is and is not, has ever and never been, will ever and never be,
All the meaning and purpose consciousness might ever prescribe.
* * * *
The confines of the mind can grow very small or very large,
Depending upon the awareness, and the consciousness it inspires.
* * * *
Wealth is not the only realm of the one-percenters.
Every medium has its winners and losers, its rulers and subjects,
And only the most steadfast, only the most determined,
Are allowed entry into the given fraternity.
* * * *
In the struggle between consciousness and awareness,
Is there a victor, or simply the serenity of cessation?
* * * *
Why should you, would you, ever blindly believe what you cannot discern for your Self?
Why accept another’s assertion if no convincing, tangible evidence is available?
You, scientist, have the right, the obligation, to explore any hypothesis,
Without unwarranted pressure from any individual or group.
* * * *
The mind devours through the eyes, the ears, the tongue, the nose, the flesh.
What is it but imagination’s craving for a permanence it can never attain,
For it is but an intangible dream of the indivisible quantum hologram.
* * * *
No, you are not going to change the ever-changing world,
This garden orb will spin on and on the same as it always has.
Your brief window of time will be just another vain, hollow flurry
In a seemingly endless emanation of vain, hollow flurries.
Our vain, hollow drama is not near as critical as we,
For whatever reason, always seem to believe.
* * * *
How challenging when you are young and vibrant,
To imagine the mortal frame someday old and feeble.
* * * *
Your personality, all you imagine yourself to be and not be, is born of desire and fear.
To be free, to abide vulnerably in awareness, you must still all thought,
And merge back into the timelessness of eternity.
To do so is to be born again into the indelible indivisibility,
Into the absoluteness, into the mystery that is prior to consciousness.
* * * *
Self imagery is nothing more than imagination’s rainbow,
A panorama of every conceivable color, or every shade of gray.
It is the awareness in which you are every moment truly born anew.
* * * *
Waking up from the dream of mind is a rare feat.
One that is not without many trips and falls,
And every variety of distracting detour.
* * * *
What is time but the assumption, the illusion, the delusion of memory,
Nothing more than the evolutionary happenstance of the neuron trail.
* * * *
The conditioning is strong.
There is no way you can be free of it
But through becoming very still, very present,
Free and clear of all imaginary traces.
* * * *
What is this very human need to identity with this or that?
What a thing to imagine your make-believe persona real and true.
* * * *
The real youness is prior to consciousness,
Prior to all conditioning, prior to all imaginary perceptions.
To realize the unconditional requires an abeyance
Only full attention to now can give.
* * * *
You were born again many, many times
Before imagination did a gradual sunrise in your mind,
And the rest is a history only you can know.
And everyone else the same.
* * * *
What is any personality, any character, any ego, but the response, the reply, the answer,
The retort, the rejoinder, the comeback, the reaction, the survival mechanism,
That the winds of time in mind shaped your imagination to play out;
To enjoy, to endure, the agonies and ecstasies of existence.
* * * *
You are the timeless awareness.
Still the imaginary mind.
Be here, be now.
* * * *
Make-believe can never be real.
It is all make-believe.
* * * *
Truth beckons those who have eyes to see and ears to hear.
Let the true believer believe all the lies his blindness allows.
* * * *
Without the herd, without the other, you would not have the opportunity to stand quietly aloof;
To observe, to watch, to view, to scrutinize, to monitor, to study, to examine, to survey,
To witness a dream of consciousness, an imaginary theater, as only you can.
* * * *
There is no yoke to truth.
It is the conditioning of consciousness, of imagination,
That fabricates all encumbrance.
* * * *
It does not matter what you say or do,
Believe or do not believe, know or do not know,
The timeless awareness ever emanates exactly the same.
* * * *
Most human beings are quite unattractive; even unapproachably ugly.
Without clothing and accessories, and a inordinate amount of self-absorbed delusion,
We likely would have never made it out of the jungles of Africa,
Much less overpopulate the entire planet.
* * * *
It does not matter how you are.
It does not matter why you are.
It does not matter who you are.
It does not matter what you are.
It does not matter when you are.
It does not matter where you are.
You are all the same consciousness.
You are all the same awareness.
You are all the same dream.
You are all the same now.
You are all the same me.
You are all the same you.
You are all the same quantum.
Call it God, call it Buddha, call it Tao,
Call it Allah, call it Brahman, call it whatever,
You are all the same prior-to-consciousness mystery.
If truth does not bring you the harmony of peace, nothing will.
* * * *
We are but a whim of the quantum matrix,
Players in a universe of differences
That are but vibratory illusion.
* * * *
What a human-born absurdity to strive to be a historical footnote.
Even more so to be the title to a chapter, a book, a movie, or a college course.
And wackiest-beyond-the-pale of any and all is to be the source-point
To some obnoxious, overbearing, sanctimonious religion.
* * * *
In every mind across the manifest board,
The ethereal winds of imagination huff and puff helter-skelter
In their own little singular double-double-toil-and-trouble bubbles of space and time.
The world, the cosmos, the unicity, is ever eternally unmoved, indifferent,
To all the self-absorbed dramas of the human paradigm.
* * * *
What will be said and done after your departure from the theater is not for you to know,
And what is knowing, anyway, but vague perception given credence one way or another.
* * * *
Cannot say whether or not God is dead,
But Jesus most definitely is, and whoever he was, or was not,
He was not in this mind’s eye any more or less that which is God than any you or I,
Or any other land or water or air critter, great or medium or small.
We are all equally born of the same quantum mystery.
Only the vanities pretend otherwise.
* * * *
But for the mind caught in its own snare, its own vice, its own egocentric notion,
There is no sure, no clear, no particular way anyone or anything must be.
The indelibly indivisible quantum mystery this all is, this all is not,
Is without any principle or meaning or purpose, whatsoever.
* * * *
If you have turned to hope to solve a problem,
Then it is likely already well beyond too late.
* * * *
The mortal persona that you imagine you are
Is in the all-seeing awareness of totality gazing out
Through the quantum senses into a quantum hologram.
* * * *
Rationality decries and derides irrationality,
But what of the unknown prior to consciousness,
Where all rhetoric becomes absolutely meaningless.
* * * *
To die to the world, to die to the garden of temptation,
Is the most arduous challenge you can ever un-imagine.
* * * *
What would this garden world become if humankind could just throw out all the memes:
Political, economic, religious, philosophical, cultural, and start all over again.
Can anyone even begin to envision what that mindset would be?
Would we, could we, truly create anything different?
Is it not obvious the monkey-mind
Is too entrenched in all its emotional passions,
All its imaginary impulses, to ever evolve from its jungle of origin.
The fate of our kind, of the world, of the universe, is etched in the sands of quantum.
* * * *
How meaningless all speculation.
“Tis but chatter of a busy mind.
* * * *
There is only one source, one creation, one soul, one quantum.
Only consciousness imagines its countless splinterings real.
* * * *
Humankind has always been about making into its own image, into its own imagination,
That which has no image, that which is eternally faceless, that which is eternally nameless.
* * * *
Pretend each and every moment is your last.
In a very subtle way, it most definitely is.
* * * *
Very challenging to participate in the world, and not get drawn in believing it all real.
The conditioning, the habituation, is strong, and the mind weak and easily distracted.
* * * *
All creatures from great to small have the same awareness as you.
It is only consciousness that endlessly fabricates the notion of duality.
It is only consciousness that continually divides youness into me and them.
It is only consciousness that deludes itself separate from the indivisible.
* * * *
Without all those memories, without all that knowledge,
Without the collusion of all the myriad others around you,
Who-what-where-when-why-how would you have ever been?
The quantum feast is an indivisible creation of intelligent design.
* * * *
Why be a true believer in anything or anyone?
Why allow the slaves of ignorance access to your mind or body?
Why trust any mass movement to take you anywhere you cannot get on your own?
Let the one-percenters and their minions wage their own wars.
Let the corporate empires fall on their own swords.
Let the creeds play out their dogmas.
Stand alone, sovereign.
* * * *
Everything you think you are, everything you believe the cosmos to be,
Is nothing more than a subjective, haphazard collection of vague perceptions
Imprinted throughout the brain: a neural transmitter of evolutionary confabulation;
Organic fiber bundles firing this way and that; a lightning storm blazing away inside a skull.
You are nothing more than a figment of imagination perpetuating a delusion.
* * * *
Is it any wonder so many across the board of human existence
Mitigate their mundane existence utilizing whatever escape is available?
Whether it be religion or sports or politics or drugs or soap operas or any whatever,
The suffering of consciousness, of sickness and injury and aging and dying,
Is a burden all humans equally shares, no matter the given lot.
* * * *
It is the awareness of the light within that shines out upon the world, upon the universe,
But it is consciousness that invents your version, your account, your interpretation,
Your translation, your rendition, your exploration, your understanding, your conclusion,
Of all the myriad experiences that come and go within the sensory perception of the given vessel.
* * * *
Eternal awareness is the state
Of those who have shed name and identity,
Of the rare few who bear no memory of that needing none.
* * * *
You know because you agree to know.
You esteem knowledge because your conditioning
Has disciplined you to commit to memory minutiae unending.
It is the underpinning of all identity, and commotion and spectacle unending.
The human paradigm in a nutshell.
* * * *
That is done, that is done, and that is done, too.
When nothing is done, nothing is ever left undone.
In the watermelon sugar of time’s imaginary notions.
* * * *
Fresh from the given womb, a filament of consciousness is cast into a windy dream of time,
Where sickness and injury and aging and demise are but a relatively few breaths down the road.
What is there to do but to live it out, to enjoy, to endure, as best as the kaleidoscoping moment allows.
* * * *
The quest for truth, the quest for eternal nature,
May be less about discovering something else,
May be less about experiencing some higher state,
Than it is simply unchaining from everything imaginable.
* * * *
You need not believe in anything, you need not believe in anyone.
The human drama is bursting with a ceaseless array of empty assumptions,
Steeped in endless cravings for, and endless fears of, all things known and unknowable.
There is no respite, there is no serenity, for the willy-nilly, unbridled mind.
* * * *
You are the absolute nothingness of totality playing out an imaginary fabrication,
A random, subjective, arbitrary, dreamy, touchy-feely, three-dimensional, dreamtime reality.
Boggling beyond all horizons, all conceivable pales, yes, but that is just the way it is.
* * * *
Truth is not exclusive to the human paradigm,
But being human offers an opportunity to perceive it
In a way no other creature, to the best of our knowledge, can.
But it is a mighty humungous cosmos, so the jury will be out for awhile.
* * * *
The mind seeks solutions, clarifications, explanations, remedies, resolutions, results, antidotes, cures;
And many if not most minds will create one answer or another if one is not easily available.
Hence the proclivity toward assumption, superstition, prejudice, stereotyping,
And all the other numerous varieties of delusional cogitation.
To be rational is to stand alone, aloof from the resolute cloud of ignorance.
* * * *
You have got down all the right-sounding wordplay,
But is it just a good memory, or have you really got it?
* * * *
If you were completely on your own,
Would it have ever occurred to you to imagine some deity?
If you had no other mythological influence, no other source other than your own eye,
Would it have occurred to you that you were in any way separate
From the here now playing out all about you?
* * * *
What does the human paradigm demonstrate again and again,
But that nothing is as truly important as imagination ever seeks to deem it.
Even the so-called spiritual quest is ultimately an à la mode absurdity.
* * * *
The dreamscape of the dreamtime is constantly changing.
What cannot adapt, what cannot abide, diminishes or perishes.
* * * *
Are you streaming through a dream?
Or is a dream streaming through you?
Or is it neither-nor-both-one-in-the-same?
* * * *
Hoping so makes nothing so.
One must get down and dirty in the muck of time
For the H-word to glean any reality.
* * * *
Does anything created of the human mind
Matter anywhere near as much as so many vainly believe?
How can truth be attached to anything confabulated
By the imaginary notions of consciousness?
* * * *
The splintery fence between awareness and consciousness is not easily straddled.
Sometimes you are awake, sometimes you are asleep, sometimes you are merely a tad drowsy.
So, in the end of all beginnings, it all boils down to: Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
* * * *
Notions, notions, notions, so many notions.
Questions, questions, questions, so many questions.
The pitter-patter-chitter-chatter of the busy mind is unending.
* * * *
There is only the ever-present moment,
There is only the timeless awareness prior to consciousness,
And there is no need to habitually encumber it with every variety of imaginary notion
Of what was, what is, and what might or might not be.
* * * *
What is history but a collection of ambiguous perceptions,
Superimposed as reality, oftentimes for ulterior purpose.
* * * *
Consciousness is the game awareness is forced to play
In order to survive and endure in this manifest dreamtime.
It serves no other rhyme or reason in the ultimate sense.
* * * *
How much of your life do you spend trying to justify your existence
To one imaginary other or another wafting about in your neuron trail?
* * * *
What is time but vague perceptions of memory cells
Projected day-in-day-out into every conceivable imaginary whatever.
That, coupled with vocal chords, opposable thumbs, two legs, and a flair for tool-making,
And, voila, a never-ending, dreamtime collusion of human scale.
* * * *
There will never be political, economic, or social resolution to the human condition.
Consciousness itself would need to evolve into making the paradigm shift,
And that is about as likely as flying pigs or raining cats and dogs.
* * * *
Most human beings are mindlessly happy, mindlessly content,
With the given conditioning, the given frame of reference, the given idolatry.
To be a seer, doubt is required, and disbelief, skepticism, cynicism, are scarce commodities.
No point in trying to debate, to persuade, to convert, any true believer.
All must ultimately discern truth alone in their own way.
In other words, mind your own awareness.
* * * *
Look left, look right, look up, look down, look all around.
Everything perceived is mind-eye’s projection: arbitrary, capricious, whimsical,
Random, chance, unpredictable; casual, wanton, unmotivated, motiveless, unreasoned, unsupported, Irrational, illogical, groundless, unjustified, personal, discretionary, subjective.
The you that you in so many indivisible moments believe you are,
Is nothing more than an imaginary creation.
* * * *
What is the truth but the ever-present, ethereal, timeless moment,
To which memory is but a figment of imagination
Carrying on as if it were real.
* * * *
What is existence but an ever-kaleidoscoping array of colors, sounds, smells, tastes, and sensations.
A touchy-feely, three-dimensional streaming of physical and mental gymnastics
In a corporeal collection of bones, flesh, and slime,
To which the given mind
Become attached in every way imaginable.
* * * *
It is imagination that is born.
It is imagination that exists, that enjoys and endures.
It is imagination that attaches; imagination that ascribes and fastens to this and that.
It is imagination that dies.
* * * *
To not value learning is to miss out on the dreamtime about you.
A sturdy, profound education – robust, strong, determined –
Is the key to discerning the truth, the reality of all things,
And how they make their way in the mystery of time and space.
* * * *
Ultimately, everything is simultaneously happening at the indivisible quantum level.
Chemistry and biology are but the means by which the manifest illusion
Plays out every possible illusion, every possible delusion.
* * * *
The quantum mystery creates you, and you in return perceive it,
In whatever way the conditioning of your consciousness ordains.
* * * *
A different world,
A different universe,
A different everything,
All stitched of imagination.
All alone, together.
* * * *
In every mind, a different reality,
A different world, a different universe.
Every one imagined real and true.
All indivisibly alone, together.
* * * *
In every mind, a different reality,
A different world, a different universe.
Every one completely real, completely true.
Every one a fabrication of imagination.
Every one entirely alone, together.
* * * *
What does a rock perceive, what does it do,
And how in quantum is it different from you?
* * * *
How can you perceive Self
When there is no Self to apprehend?
The only evidence you have that you even exist
Is provided by the same imagination collecting the data.
Awareness is all there is, and even it is more than a little equivocal.
* * * *
Fractured by imaginary ideas and impulses of every possible tint and hue.
Heal thy Self if you have will and wit enough to see it through and through.
* * * *
Dying to time, dying to memory, dying to identity, as simple as it is,
Is not an easy thing for the ever-moving, ever consuming mind to do.
* * * *
What is complete and utter detachment
But a mind given over entirely to its natural state,
Given over to the awareness, the stillness prior to consciousness.
* * * *
Those who fathom eternal life abide artlessly in the ever-present moment.
To embrace the duality of space-time and all the assumptions of identification,
Is but the living death fashioned by the usurpation of awareness by consciousness.
* * * *
If you were a train engine running down the timeless track,
How many cars worth of memories would you be pulling?
* * * *
What is the best word to describe the passing of time?
Moving? Fleeting? Marching? Happening? Unfolding? Streaming?
Emanating? Projecting? Reflecting? Kaleidoscoping? Matrixing? Holographing?
The mystery that defies any and all description would likely guffaw long and hard, had it a voice.
The indivisible, ephemeral now is all there is; time is but the creation of imagination.
* * * *
The awareness you – and all that is dualistically perceived as otherness – timelessly are,
That which is prior to consciousness, that which is prior to the indivisibility,
Is without attributes, without blemish, and permeates all as one.
* * * *
What an ephemeral thing this me, this my Self, this I,
This awareness that has no bounds, no limits,
But those concocted by imagination.
* * * *
It is consciousness that imagines all divisions, all boundaries, all classes, all conflict.
The singularity, the awareness, from which all things emerge, is without attributes.
* * * *
What you truly ever are, and are not, is prior to all assumptions,
Prior to all assertions "I am this" or "I am that,"
Prior even to the most austere conscious declaration: "I Am."
The prior that is the immaculate, indivisible awareness permeating all creation.
* * * *
Every mind born anew
To wander the yellow brick road
Offered by the sensory quantum holograph
Timelessly emanating from the mystery of imagination.
* * * *
The human mind evolved to survive the savagery and hardship of its jungle origin.
To solve problems, to design tools, to fashion weapons, to politic with others in its domain.
And when it does not have families to raise, widgets to fabricate, fields to harvest, or battles to win.
There can be a tendency by drama-queen sorts to summon insoluble difficulties out of thin air.
Ergo, an overpopulated world overrun by monkey-consciousness in near-constant flux,
Much of it, inordinately, indisputably, undeniably, beyond-the-pale pointless.
* * * *
The awareness you are observes the body breathing in, breathing out.
The awareness you are observes the mind thinking this, thinking that.
The awareness you are, call it what you will: observer, watcher, witness;
Always ever-present, always motionless, always changeless, always ageless.
An eternal mystery traveling dreams of time in mortal patterns of every hue.
* * * *
Quantum is the building block, the source code,
And awareness, through consciousness, the designer,
Gradually awakening through eons of creative evolution
To the insoluble mystery of its inexplicable source.
* * * *
The awareness you truly are is not bound to any form or identity.
The inexplicable mystery which is indivisibly, irrevocably, undeniably, irrefutably, indelibly alone,
Gazes out through two eyes, listens through two ears, smells through two nostrils,
Tastes with one tongue, and feels through a maze of nerve endings.
The you that you pretend to be in this quantum play,
Is but a temporal sensory universe,
A dream born of imagination.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
How can there be karma if you are nothing more than the eternal moment?
Karma is nothing more than yet another imaginary notion
Playing in the smoke of the given mind.
* * * *
Creation is the awareness, through quantum stardust, evolving from atoms into molecules,
Mutating into genes, into cells, into life forms, playing out consciousness,
In whatever way the patterning of the mystery allows.
And the one and only you, the real you, always the witness.
* * * *
Soul |sōl| noun … is defined as the spiritual or immaterial part
Of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal.
Part? What part? How can it be a part?
Let us not confuse that which is indivisibly, immortally eternal
With the imaginary personality, the trite character born of time-bound consciousness.
Let us not fall into the egocentric trap that its ephemeral nature
Is anything that is in any way exclusionary.
* * * *
To be that which is prior to consciousness,
To be that which is but unending awareness,
To be that which is nada-nil-zilch nothingness,
To be that is to be the eternal unicity in all:
Omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent.
* * * *
Where would time be without stars and sun and moon?
Without the tick-tock-tick-tock-tick-tock of clocks on walls?
Without ever-changing digital numbers scribing silent screens?
What is time but a mind-made collusion pretending eternity is real?
* * * *
In the tale “The Emperor's New Clothes,” a tale of a vain king swept up by a deceitful notion,
The young child, too young to understand the desirability of keeping up the pretense,
Cries out the truth no one else dared: "But he isn't wearing anything at all!"
And if you step back a bit, you will clearly see the human paradigm
Is based entirely on the vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity trickery of consciousness,
An imaginary dreamtime reality to which eternal truth has no allegiance, whatsoever.
* * * *
Whether it is a rock, a statue, a painting, a concept, or flesh and blood;
Whether it is Persian, Greek, Roman, Taoist, Hindu, Buddhist, Celtic, Aztec, or any other;
Idolatry is idolatry is idolatry.
Just because it is your cultural construct,
Does not make it any less narrow or false or absurd.
* * * *
Is there really a universe, a cosmos jam-packed with galaxies?
Or simply an indivisible matrix, an awareness,
Timelessly dreaming a universe?
* * * *
If you can imagine anything, without having to act everything out,
You will have an interesting, stimulating, easy-going existence,
With far fewer consequences to play out in the long run.
* * * *
The stream of consciousness is everything
From shallow and wide to deep and narrow,
From slow and tranquil to swift and untamable,
And meanders every variety of tack across all time.
* * * *
To give your self completely over to the awareness,
Is to be free of conditioning, witness to the dream.
* * * *
We are all the same inexplicable, indivisible, immortal quantum essence.
It is consciousness that conceives every imaginable difference.
There is, has never been, will never be, any other.
* * * *
So many regrets, so many things you would do differently, or likely not at all.
Would that there were more of a rewind button than mere imagination.
But, then again, what regrets would there be but for imagination?
* * * *
Is the time born of consciousness
Anything more than the creation of desire and fear,
Indelibly imprinted in the genetic code?
* * * *
You are awareness: nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Everything else is but the endless confabulation of imagination.
* * * *
In the wrestling match between nature and human consciousness,
It is not all that arduous to predict which will inevitably triumph.
Malthus was only off by a relatively few cycles of the given star.
* * * *
What a beast, deoxyribonucleic acid, in its mindless quest for immortality,
That it would relentlessly persist in propagating consciousness
Into so many hazardous, torturous circumstances:
Ailments, illnesses, infections, viruses, syndromes, diseases,
Maladies, disorders, accidents, disasters, misfortunes, catastrophes,
Mishaps, malaise, mayhem, turmoil, havoc, bedlam, anarchy, pandemonium,
Calamites, conflicts, and every other sort of indescribably painful whatever ad infinitum.
* * * *
And the moral of the story of the human epoch,
And its imaginary stream of consciousness
Through all its myriad mortal filters,
Is?
* * * *
You think there is point to all this absurdity?
Well, no, there is not, there never was, there never will be.
It is simply an emanating, kaleidoscoping, hologram of pointlessness,
Seemingly destined to play out until there is absolutely nothing left to play out.
* * * *
The senses created the illusion of time,
And time created the mind.
A quantum circle.
* * * *
The nowness that you perceive, the nowness to which you cling,
The nowness that you every moment spin into your dream of time,
Is already nothing more than the ephemeral ash of imagination.
* * * *
Purpose and meaning and all the passions of vanity are overrated.
Only in unmitigated detachment is there any resolution to the human absurdity.
Stop knowing, stop caring, stand alone, wander alone, absolute and free.
* * * *
Where are you in the ever-present moment,
But the neural theater of consciousness, of imagination.
That play of mind that you believe, that you assume, real and true.
* * * *
Scientists are explorers of the mysterious unknown, of the perpetual enigma,
Using ever-evolving technology to fathom beyond the limits of the sensory panorama,
Yet restricted all the while, by the conditioned mind through which they perceive,
Through which they futilely measure but a veil of that which is immeasurable.
* * * *
All speculation shall hereby cease and desist,
And all well-meaning witnesses shall from here on refrain,
From any further mentioning, any further hinting, any further pretending,
About anything of the esoteric that they do not, cannot, know.
They shall be silent and keep counsel to themselves,
That the thistles of the world might declaw,
And the age of humankind carry on
In a more agreeable manner.
Pfft, yeah, right, sure.
* * * *
Unify within and without until within and without dissolve into a stillness
In which the boundaries, the movement of imagination, disappear.
And the harmony of the manifest becomes Self apparent.
* * * *
Awareness peers out from the empty stillness through the filters of consciousness,
Which tailor the world, the universe, to its own conditioned, self-absorbed design.
* * * *
In consciousness, you are a human becoming.
In awareness, you are a human being.
* * * *
What is death but one day not waking up,
And the ripples of corporeal existence ceasing to emanate
Into whatever portion of the universe your given dreamtime played out.
Whether or not you had great or little impact thereon out is not for you to ever perceive.
Only the omniscient-omnipresent-omnipotent quantum unicity witnesses all,
In the awareness, the nothingness, the oblivion, that is and is not.
* * * *
Another moment transforming into yet another vague memory
In the baggage train of mind and all its vain perceptions
Of your so-called life and the human collusion.
* * * *
To put behind you all paradigms consciousness might concoct,
Is to expand into a state of sovereignty no finite mind can grasp.
* * * *
Eternity whisks away every footstep without thought, without remorse.
Only the sensory mind bound to the dream of time imagines any of it real.
* * * *
We all have many things that draw us, many interests that lead us down our long and winding pathway.
It could be family or friends or community or work or politics or religion or business or Ivory Tower
Or creativity or nature or travel or cooking or shopping or sports or current events or heroic causes
Or sex or gambling or drugs or lying or cheating or stealing or wreaking or blathering incoherently,
Or merely perching day after day in front of a television or computer, or in taverns and coffee shops.
The scroll is as long as imagination allows – we encounter many things in our given windows of time.
But as our dream streams on, as we grow older, our diversions, our amusements, slowly whittle down,
And whatever it is in the end that drums most loudly in our mind’s eye will be the capstone of one’s fate.
* * * *
Challenging as it may be to detach
From the many pleasures and pains body and mind tender,
The ultimate reality is that nothing ever actually touches the immortal you that you truly are.
Imagination has always believed itself more real than it can ever be.
* * * *
When it comes down to the nuts and bolts of this whodunit,
It is what it is, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Nothing that anyone believes about it truly matters.
It is all the same grist; it is all the same mill.
* * * *
There is me, and there is Me.
There is the you that is separate, that is different,
And there is the You that is the same as Me.
One imaginary, the other real and true.
* * * *
The passions can be a heady mix of emotions, often impetuous, barely controllable.
From Wikipedia, a list of the A-to-W ways it can play out in any of us: affection, anger,
Angst, anguish, annoyance, anticipation, anxiety, apathy, arousal, awe, boredom, confidence,
Contempt, contentment, courage, curiosity, depression, desire, despair, disappointment, disgust,
Distrust, ecstasy, embarrassment, empathy, envy, euphoria, fear, frustration, gratitude, grief,
Guilt, happiness, hatred, hope, horror, hostility, humiliation, interest, jealousy, joy,
Loneliness, love, lust, outrage, panic, passion, pity, pleasure, pride, rage, regret,
Remorse, resentment, sadness, saudade, schadenfreude, self-confidence,
Shame, shock, shyness, sorrow, suffering, surprise, trust, wonder,
Worry, and who knows how many honorable mentions
In the hard-wiring of the jungles of long ago.
We are the Planet of the Apes, indeed.
* * * *
Awareness is the baseline of all consciousness,
No matter the manifestation, no matter the dimension.
Prior to that eternal stillness, that timeless now, naught but mystery.
* * * *
How real, how alive, can the quantum of the electromagnetic spectrum ever be,
But through the streaming mix 'n match of the given sensory theater,
And whatever delusions of imagination it orchestrates.
* * * *
Eternity does not at all careen or lurch.
It does not sputter, it does not shake.
It does not jerk, it does not strain.
It does not stick, it does not slip.
It does not tick, it does not tock.
It does not do anything but be exactly what it is,
Which is to stream, to emanate, smoother than silk in every way imaginable.
* * * *
How convenient to get yourself martyred at such a brash, insolent, marketable young age.
What a foolish pretender to wander into Jerusalem thinking anyone really cared
What you had to say or do if it threatened their world in any way.
Power and fame and fortune need not be surrendered to cold, dead hands.
* * * *
What need for faith in anything?
What is faith but a form of intellectual laziness,
A lack of discerning exactness, a lack of discipline for critical inquiry
To discover the truth of this mystery for one Self.
* * * *
You think imagination reigns?
Think again, Pilgrim, think again.
It will soon be as if you were never born.
* * * *
Do not confuse the brain that is creating this timeless manifest dream,
With the time-bound mind that is through imagination interpreting it.
* * * *
To know that which is godness, that which is absolute,
You must engage in the ever-present moment to such a degree,
As to completely forget whatever temporal role
You imagine the awareness to be.
* * * *
Eternal life is not something remembered, not something born of the mind in time.
It is merely being the timeless awareness, the timeless nowness, the timeless emptiness, you truly are.
There is nothing to become, nothing to prove, nothing to maintain, nothing to pretend.
To be in that state of timeless quietude is to be all there is to be.
* * * *
The conditioning, the habituation, the programming, the indoctrination, the brainwashing,
Is hypnotizing, mesmerizing, absorbing, enthralling, spellbinding, captivating, convincing, blinding,
How much more challenging it is to be what you really, truly are, than what you pretend to be.
* * * *
If you are a hardcore religious wingnut, a true believer of the dittohead persuasion,
What would you do if you actually met your messiah, your prophet, your guru,
And did not adore him, did not believe him, wished you had never even heard of him?
Would it aggravate you, would it wake you up, or would you just start searching for another?
* * * *
No belief, no faith, no dogma, is required.
Let go of consciousness, of thought, of imagination.
Simply be the awareness you truly are.
Simply be the given here now.
* * * *
You have never existed as more than a thought.
How can the ephemeral ever-present, the timeless moment,
The indivisible quantum, ever be alive, but through imaginary notion?
* * * *
See it, hear it, taste it, smell it, feel it, as awareness alone, uncarved,
Without the imaginary self-perception and all its a priori attachments.
* * * *
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity; there is no way out.
The delusion that you even think you exist is vanity.
* * * *
The absolute is absolutely indifferent
To the variable winds of agony and ecstasy
That transpire in the consciousness born of mind.
* * * *
You have played out every conceivable mythological role:
God, Allah, Brahmin, Tao, Buddha, Christ, and on and on ad infinitum.
None of them are anything more than collusions born of the idolatrous monkey-mind.
Let them all go, give Self over to the eternal awareness prior to all naming, prior to all imagination.
There absolutely is no need to be, to pretend anything more than the timeless stillness,
The quantum indivisibility you are, have ever been, and will ever be.
* * * *
Does the tiger think itself a tiger? The whale, a whale?
The shark, a shark? The crow, a crow? The snake, a snake? The frog, a frog?
The ant, an ant? The spider, a spider? The worm, a worm? The weed, a weed? A microbe, a microbe?
Or do they all merely act out the given instinctual patterns
That all this mystery’s creatures small to great,
Play out in harmonized fashion; a ballet that knows no bounds.
And is humankind, despite all the pretenses of consciousness, really doing any different?
* * * *
The quantum matrix is a timeless, spaceless, immeasurable fact.
Measure it, appraise it, in every way imaginable until kingdom come,
All you will ever calculate, all you will ever speculate, is but the veil of illusion.
* * * *
Once the sensory universe convinces the mind to take its awareness seriously,
It is condemned to play an imaginary, impromptu role until death does it part.
* * * *
Physical pain and discomfort have a tendency to put a damper on attitude,
And along with watching this garden orb spiral into every sort of horror and absurdity,
Can be a substantial challenge to any Sisyphus daily rolling the boulder up the hill,
Any Atlas bothering to carry the weight of heaven and earth upon his shoulders.
* * * *
Awareness, the source of all creation, knows nothing.
Self-knowledge is but the imaginary fabrication of consciousness.
Without the matrix of quantum indivisibility, without the dream of otherness,
There would be no reflection, there would be no inquiry into the mystery of all mysteries.
And even in that reflection, as expansive or focused as it might be,
The inexplicable remains forever inexplicable.
Soundbites
Consciousness is but waves crashing, tides ebbing and flowing, in the its dream of time.
* * * *
Continuity? Only in your dreams.
* * * *
Joy is as imaginary as sorrow.
* * * *
The world is for those who lack imagination, and the one with the least is often first to pull the trigger.
* * * *
Daily you wake up, and there you are, nothing pretending something yet again.
* * * *
Believe this or that if you must, but what a tedious way to get through the day-to-day.
* * * *
What need does a newborn have for belief?
* * * *
Awareness coupled with consciousness, we all are.
* * * *
The pace of consciousness leaves all in one wake or another.
* * * *
You do not have to believe any of it, you know.
* * * *
Without awareness, without consciousness, without imagination, what is there?
* * * *
The god you have in mind, the god you imagine, is not god.
* * * *
You have played the monkey every way imaginable; what more is left?
* * * *
What are you but a point of consciousness in an indivisibility without center.
* * * *
It is a choice to hold on to your dream: What does it take to let it go?
* * * *
That which is prior to consciousness leaves no trace.
* * * *
Imagination carries the day.
* * * *
A quantum-schooch-quantum dream.
* * * *
You are a time machine in imagination only.
* * * *
The difference between any given here now is the difference only consciousness knows.
* * * *
Another self-absorbed existence underway in the bon-voyage-agony-ecstasy of all things imaginary.
* * * *
All the world’s a stage, and all we mortal players merely the dreams of oblivion.
* * * *
No human outcome can ever but hope to be more dynamic than its collective vision.
* * * *
How can imagination ever more than imagine reconciling its make-believe with reality?
* * * *
Belief has nothing to do with the reality, the truth of what is, and what is not.
* * * *
Where stillness is not, there is one delusion or another.
* * * *
Vain notion cloaks any vision of the quantum field.
* * * *
In the relativity of consciousness, perspective is all.
* * * *
Only human beings pretend to be what they are not, never were, will never be.
* * * *
We are all made strangers through our imaginary differences.
* * * *
What is any memory but a vague shadow of the original perception.
* * * *
What bounds can there ever be to the vanity born of imagination?
* * * *
What bounds can there ever be to the vanity born of imagination?
* * * *
Just another thing come and gone in the dream of it.
* * * *
That little attachment is the dream, too, you know.
What else can bliss be but the perception of the indivisible pervading all.
* * * *
You are a portal through which the quantum mystery has achieved consciousness.
* * * *
All histories are but vague notions, all biased one way or another.
* * * *
How the dream does reek of unsubstantiated bullshit.
* * * *
It is all much greater than the limits of any imagination.
* * * *
The dream of space and time is only real if you believe the sensory body-mind.
* * * *
You are nothing but a mind chock-full of vain notions.
* * * *
Trust consciousness to sometimes bend you over and forget the lubricant.
* * * *
Another day of consciousness playing out everything imaginable.
* * * *
Insanity rocks, baby.
* * * *
What part of “It is just a dream” do you not get?
* * * *
Consciousness is the weaver of Samsara, awareness the witness.
* * * *
Dream on, Dreamer.
* * * *
Imagine going to your grave still asleep.
* * * *
What a worthy opponent, this Grand Illusion!
* * * *
It may only be a dream, but it is your version, a one-time show, indeed.
* * * *
Consciousness weaves you into beingness.
* * * *
Another day in the dreamtime of the quantum ether.
* * * *
Ask not what consciousness can do for you, but what you can do for consciousness.
* * * *
It is about being, not becoming or believing.
* * * *
More egocentric, ethnocentric, geocentric, chronocentric, heliocentric, cosmoscentric absurdity.
* * * *
Why would you need an imaginary friend when you are already your own?
* * * *
More pandering to hope.
* * * *
Imagination, the source of all vanity.
* * * *
Is this world an insane asylum, or what?
* * * *
For good or ill, you must play your little part for a relatively brief notion of time.
* * * *
All belief systems have their extremes; moderation is a rare talent.
* * * *
How challenging, even the most simple existence in this manifest dream.
* * * *
Hope is the far-flung vapor of imagination.
* * * *
Just when you think it cannot get any more absurd.
* * * *
You are smack dab in the middle of your universe, sensory illusion that it is.
* * * *
Which to value more: The flower, or the memory of it?
* * * *
Always a curious thing what any given set of memory sells will glom onto.
* * * *
Abandon hope all ye who enter here, no sugarcoating allowed.
* * * *
“None of the Above” is the answer to absurdity.
* * * *
When did absurdity ever stop anyone bound and determined?
* * * *
Imagine a garden world where the richness of existence was its gold.
* * * *
There is always someone willing to spin whatever lie you are willing to believe.
* * * *
The awareness prior to all movement of consciousness.
* * * *
Never believe any prediction until your head is hot, cold, or wet.
* * * *
Why should anyone ever feel at all obligated to being bound by ignorance and absurdity?
* * * *
Futile as it is, there is always hope.
* * * *
What we call regular life is really science fiction of the first order.
* * * *
Ever empty, despite all the efforts of consciousness to fill you fuller than you.
* * * *
Where there is quality, there is a value to which words can only hope to aspire.
* * * *
What bitter end will you endure to play out this very worldly dream?
* * * *
How many times has it been said or written: The world is for those who lack imagination.
* * * *
When it comes to the grand infinity of it all, always paint the largest picture you can imagine.
* * * *
Consciousness is a web of its own making, with filaments linking every mind.
* * * *
Step back and watch that life you pretend with the detached eye of awareness you really are.
* * * *
The indolent mind is the breeding ground of superstition, dogma, delusion, and other absurdities.
* * * *
The vapor of nothingness pretending it is somethingness.
* * * *
The orgasm is imagination’s explosion into oblivion.
* * * *
It is the absurdity of fools to think genius can be educated.
* * * *
In consciousness, you are just another monkey; in awareness, well, that is another matter.
* * * *
Truth is greater than any fiction, but you must get past all the stories to discern it.
* * * *
Your skull is the finite edge of your infinitely imaginary universe.
* * * *
is but an intoxicating dream, an illusion which few have wit to set true.
* * * *
It is through reflection upon the looking glass of imagination that all is seen and unseen.
* * * *
Self-absorption makes possible every absurdity imaginable.
* * * *
A tincture of absurdity is remedy to the same.
* * * *
In what way-back-when did the first hint of imagination flicker?
* * * *
And then consciousness lost the reigns, and all evaporated into nothing again.
* * * *
The senses are mesmerizing deceivers in this quantum dream, and the mind the willing deceivee.
* * * *
What is identity but the wind of imagination.
* * * *
Always beginning, always ending, consciousness is like that.
* * * *
All knowledge is spun from the nothingness of the awareness prior to imagination.
* * * *
What is any given moment but another set of perceptions quickly vaporizing into vague memory.
* * * *
Another snippet for the neuron trail to slice into vague perception.
* * * *
Hope and pray all you please, but not being prepared is on you.
* * * *
Revenge: Sometimes a long memory thing; sometimes something best remedied quickly.
* * * *
knowing is ultimately nothing more than imagination pretending itself real.
* * * *
In the very still, here-now moment, not a hint of memory is abided.
* * * *
The optimist’s delusion, the cynic’s joy, the pessimist’s creed, the fool’s preserve.
* * * *
Is the freedom imagined by consciousness really freedom?
* * * *
The tree rings of imagination weave through the dream you play.
* * * *
All that treasury donated to mere ideas, hopes, and dreams.
* * * *
What is the saturation point of your realm of consciousness?
* * * *
Good and evil exist only in consciousness; the ultimate is quite free of either.
* * * *
Best face your demons if you are ever to discern they are nothing but imaginary notions.
* * * *
The eternal moment perceives no wind, no attributes, whatsoever.
* * * *
The smoke of consciousness whirls and curls in the sea of awareness.
* * * *
Imagination is the time machine in which you daily travel.
* * * *
To be utterly alone in the swirl of consciousness, that is the momentary challenge.
* * * *
What is consciousness but eternity playing in time.
* * * *
You are as infinitesimal or infinite as you imagine.
* * * *
It is all you in every shape and time imaginable.
* * * *
How my imaginary ego views your imaginary ego is the story between us.
* * * *
It is all just a big game of pretend, a make-believe-to-be-or-not-to-be theater from the get-go.
* * * *
Putting the human species on a pedestal is nothing more than self-serving absurdity.
* * * *
What is belief but believing in so many things; all of it, in fact.
* * * *
Why is it necessary to believe in anything when just being is mystery enough.
* * * *
God is but another of imagination’s countless inventions.
* * * *
The Wild West of imagination is without end.
* * * *
What is desire but a primal hunger on steroids in consciousness.
* * * *
Though it is but a brief dream, your mortal fate is unchangeable and inescapable.
* * * *
Time: A delusion of an illusion.
* * * *
You can imagine it whatever you will, or just be it, pure and still.
* * * *
Naught but an imaginary dream, the smoke of time wafts where it will.
* * * *
Awareness is the ether in which earth, wind, water, and fire dance in consciousness.
* * * *
And what indicators are you using to field that little play of delusion?
* * * *
Consciousness, it can be enjoyable, it can be painful, but not for more than a moment at a time.
* * * *
Looking back in the vague traces of memory, has not the awareness always been the same?
* * * *
Rest assured that your vanity and my vanity are equally absurd.
* * * *
The winds that sculpt any mind-body are uniquely imagined.
* * * *
Count your blessings, for they may well be more than many can ever hope to be allotted.
* * * *
No belief can achieve what you already are.
* * * *
To pretend to know what you cannot: How can you lie to your Self like that?
* * * *
What is the moment but a puff of nothing pretending something.
* * * *
It is as finite or infinite as you imagine it to be, and nothing all the while.
* * * *
Any assertion that you are this or that, or that or this, is entirely imagined.
* * * *
Perception rides the neuron trails, gradually sculpting them into their nature-nurture fate.
* * * *
For what can any cynic hope but that this is a one-life stand?
* * * *
Cannot help a dream that will not help itself.
* * * *
It is imagination that consumes itself, as it is in awareness witnessed by its Self.
* * * *
The winds of consciousness are stilled by attention to the awareness through which it blows.
* * * *
Every imaginable vanity skyrocketing exponentially.
* * * *
Imagination feeds upon itself.
* * * *
Open up to the vast maw of awareness, inexplicable host to consciousness.
* * * *
And every day you slog on in your little dream of time.
* * * *
You are as likely as forgotten or misplaced or misperceived in their heads as they are in yours.
* * * *
Faith abides delusion much more happily than doubt.
* * * *
The truest believer, the truest faith, is agnostic.
* * * *
No limits but what consciousness imagines.
* * * *
Animals with consciousness, a dangerous combination, indeed.
* * * *
What is ego but a psychic barrier built by imagination.
* * * *
Only in imagination are dreams made true.
* * * *
That new is always better is dubious, even shallow notion; the same with old.
* * * *
You can only see as far as imagination allows.
* * * *
This is one whacked out dream, of that there is no denial.
* * * *
The illicit you eschew today, is a clear conscience tomorrow.
* * * *
The lie that imagination built is founded upon temporal whimsy.
* * * *
World weariness is just running out of adrenaline for absurdity.
* * * *
Without imagination, what can there possibly be?
* * * *
All self-imagery is but the lie of imagination.
* * * *
What happened at any point of your dreamtime only matters if you hold onto it.
* * * *
No need to pretend something is what it is not, never has been, and will never be.
* * * *
The fiercest, most frightening demon is the other born of your own imagination.
* * * *
The eternal awareness, is prior to manifestation, prior to consciousness.
* * * *
How tiring to pretend interest in things that no longer interest you.
* * * *
Questions without answer hear only their own echoes, and believe them true.
* * * *
Revenge has a long memory, and payback can be meted out in many ways in many tempos.
* * * *
The abyss equally grinds all notions into the indivisible they always were.
* * * *
Both truths and lies are spun from the same nothingness of imagination.
* * * *
What are words, what is language, but the boundaries of concept, the limitations of imagination.
* * * *
Arguing over which imaginary conceptual framework is better, how pointless is that?
* * * *
Chew on it however you will, the tasteless is prior to all sensory notions.
* * * *
Awareness is a still sea through which consciousness is the only churning.
* * * *
What a show: indivisibly divisible, perfectly imperfect, consciously unconscious.
* * * *
What is death but a dreamless sleep blanketed by every sort of notion.
* * * *
Resistance is futile, and all delusions about it meaningless.
* * * *
Individuality is the assumption of imagination, as is everything else.
* * * *
The instinctual mind caught up in consciousness is a voracious beast.
* * * *
The only wake imagination churns is the roiling of illusion and delusion.
* * * *
The mind is a prison of its own imaginary design.
* * * *
Everything is illusion … Yes, all of it.
* * * *
Irony and paradox are the soulmates of absurdity.
* * * *
Perception is the root of all vanity.
* * * *
What are dreams but the subterranean rumblings of the three vanities: the Me, the Myself, the I.
* * * *
What more can be said of good and evil, but that they exist only in imagination.
* * * *
Here we all are waking up to another day of pretending it all real and important.
* * * *
What is any attachment but imaginary notion.
* * * *
Your perception is as real and unreal as anyone else's in this quantum dreamtime.
* * * *
How can the mystery witness its Self, but through one dream of time or another?
* * * *
The world has an unending array of mirages to continually entice your absorption in its grand illusion.
* * * *
is life but solitary confinement in sensory dreamtime.
* * * *
Time, an imaginary construct since the dawn of mind.
* * * *
Round and round we all go in the rat wheel of speculation.
* * * *
Is faith anything more than dread translated into the delusion of hope?
* * * *
Your existence is but an imaginary reverie playing out in the synapses of the mind-body.
* * * *
Awareness, the font of consciousness, ever the same.
* * * *
Void are you but for the swirl of imagination.
* * * *
What judgment can awareness, need awareness, conveyer of all dreams, ever muster?
* * * *
And what will you do when all that glory is but a fading memory?
* * * *
What is so absorbing about the idolatry of an imaginary god in the human psyche?
* * * *
Is any history ever anything more than a collection of vague perceptions?
* * * *
How aware is awareness without the wind of consciousness to create and explore its empty expanse?
* * * *
The boundaries of imagination are … well … imaginary.
* * * *
All potentials of consciousness are revealed by the choices in which they find harbor.
* * * *
Seriously, folks, is there really any reason to continue playing it out at this level of absurdity?
* * * *
Drugs only alter consciousness; the witness is ever the same.
* * * *
The perfection of all things quantum is in the awareness prior to consciousness.
* * * *
That you exist as anything more than a figment of imagination is an assertion of the same.
* * * *
Distill the nectar from the dung as the dream allows.
* * * *
If you must speculate, take it to the farthest reaches your imagination will allow.
* * * *
The burden you carry is as serious as your imagination makes it.
* * * *
Nothing exists or ever existed but what you imagine existed.
* * * *
There is no heaven or hell but what imagination decrees.
* * * *
All assumptions are the breadbasket of delusion.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how are you, but an imaginary, conditioned frame of reference.
* * * *
There is just too little time to be caught up with the minions of absurdity.
* * * *
Living the dream.
* * * *
New is old and old is new, only in the ever-changing hues of conscious stew.
* * * *
The god born of imagination is no god at all.
* * * *
Imagined as it all is, some states of mind are far easier to endure.
* * * *
Embrace absurdity.
* * * *
ever-shifting consciousness is the granite and quicksand of imagination.
* * * *
Dualistic delusion is so much easier than having to actually think for your Self.
* * * *
How ludicrous to believe some deity is tracking your every move, your every thought.
* * * *
Quantum dream, quantum dreamer.
* * * *
To realize time does not exist requires pretending it does.
* * * *
The world, the universe, are nothing more than a set of ideas, a bag of imaginary notions.
* * * *
You are the unknown made briefly known through the delusion of imaginary notion.
* * * *
What is any burden but a state of mind inspired by imagination.
* * * *
Hope is but begging the question.
* * * *
Absurdity plays ways beyond counting.
* * * *
What is real, and what is not real, is the awareness upon which all imagination is founded.
* * * *
History only has as much weight as imagination gives it.
* * * *
Wealthy beyond belief.
* * * *
Imagination is a prison of its own design; awareness its emancipation.
* * * *
Every mind a unique dream, a unique universe, sovereign unto its Self.
* * * *
That you pretend you are not at least occasionally a hypocrite is the first and last hypocrisy.
* * * *
The all-embracing, ever-indivisible Great Nada; nothing pretending something.
* * * *
Rest on whatever laurels your path to glory has managed, imaginary as they are.
* * * *
Prior to consciousness, you.
* * * *
Look closely, and what you will see is a dream playing out.
* * * *
In the face of reality, hope is little more than laughable.
* * * *
It is and is not whatever illusion-delusion you care to make it.
* * * *
Quested in the mind of consciousness, it rests in the heart of awareness.
* * * *
It is not you who makes anything happen in this sensory dreamtime.
* * * *
Nothing exists for a while, pretends for a while, but ever succumbs to its true nature.
* * * *
There are those who believe in god, and those who are god, and never the twain shall they meet.
* * * *
This dream is going nowhere very, very quickly.
* * * *
If you believe only the countless lies the senses weave, your destiny is mortal faire.
* * * *
You are witness to a cloud of consciousness ever-swirling in the winds of illusion.
* * * *
Do not believe your own propaganda, much less anyone else’s.
* * * *
What is awakening but conscious witnessing.
* * * *
What is ego but the force of imagination getting over-attached to its endless stream of notions.
* * * *
Another day for consciousness to raise its crescendo yet another notch.
* * * *
What is faith but imagination given the wings of hope.
* * * *
Large talk, small talk, all talk, nothing more than the tick-tock-tick-tock of consciousness.
* * * *
The line between what is and what is not, is drawn in the sands of imagination.
* * * *
What is any savior saving but imaginary projection.
* * * *
Consciousness is bound by limitations of its own making.
* * * *
Truth will play along with whatever you imagine it to be.
* * * *
Heaven and Hell are both imaginary states.
* * * *
The dream of consciousness, or the reality of awareness, you each and every moment choose anew.
* * * *
The beingness prior to belief requires no dogma.
* * * *
What are hope and faith but slothful reaction to the dread of imagination.
* * * *
The stars have no memory.
* * * *
A very brief, very mortal dream, nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
What is human existence but the venting of imaginary notion.
* * * *
The Eighth Deadly Sin: Speculation
* * * *
To more than a few absurdities, eye-rolling is the only coherent answer.
* * * *
Always curious how god’s will is so often in accord with that of the given believer.
* * * *
Here you are, passing through a dream.
* * * *
Be ever-watchful in the prior-to-consciousness awareness sense.
* * * *
Are you consciousness being watched, or awareness watching?
* * * *
We are the gods of dreamtime.
* * * *
Mind is movement, and no-mind, the awareness prior to all.
* * * *
How pointless to judge another’s dream.
* * * *
Slice by slice, the pie becomes but a memory; it is only a pie as long as it stays whole.
* * * *
Such a cluster; no wonder so many cling to hope.
* * * *
It is all just a dream in your head, the same head you have never seen.
* * * *
The universe nothing more than a lightning storm of imagination.
* * * *
Any given life is its own unique play of consciousness, a universe unto its Self.
* * * *
Rationality is a myth, objectivity a lie, inspired by the madness of consciousness.
* * * *
Suspend your fabricated notions of identity, and the universe you have in mind imagined.
* * * *
Breathe in the dream, breathe out the dream.
* * * *
The true believer projects, the truth believer receives.
* * * *
Speculations abound, including yours.
* * * *
Imagine, if you will, that humankind is nothing more than a binge of imagination.
* * * *
You are the quantum gold prior to all dreams.
* * * *
Whether singular or plural, is love anything more than imaginary notion?
* * * *
Yet another idealistic notion for which history has at best rudimentary interest.
* * * *
Those are the rules of the road … this dreamtime.
* * * *
Breathe easy, consciously, and nirvana will unfold its graceful wings.
* * * *
Normal is nothing more than the middle ground of this insane asylum.
* * * *
It is only consciousness that changes hues; the palette of awareness is ever the same.
* * * *
Vanity is the source of every imaginable mishap.
* * * *
An imaginary center in the middle of nothing.
* * * *
You imagine your Self you, and I imagine my Self me, the operating word imagine.
* * * *
Yes, it will happen to you, too, despite all your hope and the many designs to which you cling.
* * * *
Where is the center without imagination to muster it.
* * * *
The endless quest to know what can never be known is delusional notion from the get-go.
* * * *
Consciousness blurring into an indistinguishable din of stillness.
* * * *
It is all illusion; no cherry-picking.
* * * *
Life is but a touchy-feely, three-dimensional dream, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
It is only in imagination that all players are created.
* * * *
Holding the inner awareness and outer illusion in balance is the challenge.
* * * *
If the world, the universe, is but an illusion, why do you keep subscribing to it?
* * * *
To be That I Am is to let go, to release, to ignore, all that is imagined.
* * * *
What is time but the measurement of imagination.
* * * *
Consciousness is smoke; awareness, fire.
* * * *
What is time but perception projected by imagination.
* * * *
Your little footnote is but human absurdity.
* * * *
Illusion knows no bounds but the ones you set.
* * * *
Humankind’s capacity for delusion is insurmountable.
* * * *
Is the discernment of truth a matter of believing, or of seeing?
* * * *
All histories are a mirage born of the vagaries human consciousness.
* * * *
Science is ultimately nothing more than the observation and measurement of illusion.
* * * *
Consciousness is the harbor of illusion, and the source of all delusion.
* * * *
Heaven and hell are but imaginary domains.
* * * *
It is only through the illusion of duality that unicity can awaken to its Self.
* * * *
The point and purpose is whatever you imagine it to be, or not to be, no question.
* * * *
Life is the dream between naps.
* * * *
Did you live it? Or merely dream it?
* * * *
A ceaseless game of pretend played by the one in the same quantum pretender.
* * * *
Perception is all and none.
* * * *
Abide as best ye may, and do not pretend anything is forever real.
* * * *
In consciousness, you are splintered; in awareness, you are unified.
* * * *
Are you a conditioned identity, or just awareness pretending to be a conditioned identity?
* * * *
Memory cannot guarantee anything.
* * * *
Illusion is but a sensory overlay.
* * * *
Imagination, imagination, all is imagination.
* * * *
The earth was doomed the moment it was perceived as a resource.
* * * *
All community is arbitrary invention inspired by the appearance, the notion of otherness.
* * * *
What is any dimension but a sensory fabrication of consciousness.
* * * *
Imagination feeds off its own concoctions.
* * * *
All saints, all demons, and everything between, are born of imagination.
* * * *
Belief, faith, hope: the triage of the mind caught in the delusions of time.
* * * *
Best if you can ignore all the imaginary bothers hopscotching through your head.
* * * *
To be human is to participate in a never-ending insanity that evolved in the jungles of long ago.
* * * *
There is but one source, and it is nothing the pinnacles of consciousness can more than pretend.
* * * *
The other is but the dream in the neuron trail that has made this all possible.
* * * *
It is desire and fear that have molded you from pure awareness to finite consciousness.
* * * *
The ‘I’ you play is but the filament of imagination dancing along a neuron trail.
* * * *
Reality transcends belief and faith and hope.
* * * *
It is as large or small as you imagine it.
* * * *
Consciousness is but clouds passing through the clarity of awareness.
* * * *
The politics of recognition are a distraction to which human consciousness ever succumbs.
* * * *
Your entire existence is nothing more than a dream that never happened.
* * * *
Space-time offers far more than memory banks allow.
* * * *
Time is but the figment of imagination.
* * * *
All in a dream, as if it never happened.
* * * *
A dream, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but, like it never happened.
* * * *
is all a dream, no part more real than another.
* * * *
Only the mind believes its tripe real and important.
* * * *
Greed works as well as anything imagined.
* * * *
Dualism, a sensory-induced imaginary notion; nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
Still the mind, still the thoughts, still the imagination, and what is left of you?
* * * *
The whiff of permanence is but illusion.
* * * *
How much are you willing to suffer for an idea, for a whimsy born of imagination?
* * * *
Imaginary as it is, we are all drug along in the wake of history’s future-past.
* * * *
Yet another story, true or fictional, you decide.
* * * *
Imagination is the creator of all lies; it has no jurisdiction over truth.
* * * *
Heaven and hell are but states of mind to which imagination easily succumbs.
* * * *
Pretending you are an identity is a far lesser charge than true-believing it.
* * * *
A vast quantum matrix conceived and nurtured in your imaginary mind.
* * * *
What another thinks of you is but imaginary notion to which you need not subscribe.
* * * *
consciousness is born of an imaginary, subjective center.
* * * *
Rationality sponsors many an irrational notion.
* * * *
Even the most well-meaning memory is but a lie of selective perception.
* * * *
Just a dream of time filling itself with all sorts of self-absorbed gobbledygook.
* * * *
The truth is but the given moment, and thus neither the purview or the domain of consciousness.
* * * *
You are nothing more than a fiction of a neuron web locked in a vain little skull.
* * * *
Sugar and spice and all things nice is unadulterated, delusional propaganda from the get-go.
* * * *
Heaven is the invention of imagination to make endurable the perdition of earthly existence.
* * * *
Woke up again this morning, born of imagination, on a road through perdition.
* * * *
Devise whatever claims you will about awareness, all are speculations, none are real.
* * * *
Vanity-vanity-all-is-insatiable-ductless-glands-and-viscera-delusional-blue-pill-vanity.
* * * *
No matter how resolute, science is ultimately limited by the doors of human perception.
* * * *
The indivisible nothingness slathered with imagination is still indivisible nothingness.
* * * *
Breadcrumbs
This is the thesis I would have liked to have had available early on in this life,
And hope is still floating about if perchance I am required to one day begin anew.
If there is a deity of the supreme variety, hopefully he/she/it will not be so malicious
As to fling me back into this often hellish dream of gratuitous suffering and angst.
* * * *
These many thoughts are left for humankind’s unfolding reverie,
Written by a witness, a seer, who was born in 1953 A.D.
To what duration he cannot at this writing say.
Geographically, it was called Northern California
During the agricultural-industrial-technological epoch
Of the United States of America, a nation-state
In what seemed the zenith and early decline
Of civilization as he elected to perceive it.
But history knows many such epochs
So the accuracy of all predictions in time
Is for future scholars to ponder and pontificate,
As they always have, and undoubtedly, always will.
* * * *
Why spend so much time penning all this rather meaningless silliness, you might well ask.
Well, the woeful truth is this aging mortal container can only carouse
So many hours of these winter daze, anymore.
And what remains is philosophy.
The title of the next book might well be:
The Hedonist’s Guide to Higher Consciousness.
* * * *
Herein is what these eyes have seen,
Given freely for time to do with it what it will
In whatever way the theater of consciousness dictates
In its unparalleled experiment of free will.
* * * *
Thoughts of every variety written for a relatively small audience,
And who they are, or where they are, entirely unknowable.
Ergo, the Johnny Appleseed scatter-it-about approach.
And if nothing comes of it in the dreamtime to come, so be it.
* * * *
Leaving the dreamtime these thoughts to do with whatever it pleases.
* * * *
Do not for a second believe all these thoughts are in the order they were written.
* * * *
This is the work I would hope to find were I ever come back to the is fine mess.
* * * *
Yet another mortal player penning endless absurdities about nothing much ado.
* * * *
What a prison the body can become as it loses its wellbeing,
Especially to a spirit no longer intoxicated with the vanity of existence,
Incarcerated in the space and time of a mind, of a body, of a world, of a universe,
Playing an infinitesimal function in an ephemeral dream for which there is no longer appetite.
* * * *
Biding my time, making the best of this perdition.
Not at all interested in being a human being ever again.
Have experienced far more that would have ever been imagined.
Existence is no longer necessary in any dimension.
The quantum singularity beckons.
* * * *
The only Gaia that could call me back
To another voluntary existence
Would be the one before fire was harnessed,
The one before humankind began its cancerous ascension.
But, alas, that garden, that Eden, is long since spent, long since played out,
And no time machine, no portal, no wormhole, but imagination, at the ready at this reckoning.
* * * *
The dream can do whatever it wants with these many words.
They came to mind in their own effortless way,
And it was an enjoyable process
Putting pen to paper.
* * * *
Still here, still collecting that statistical sample
On what it is to dream a very human dream.
* * * *
What to do when the favorite time of day
Becomes the oblivion of dreamless sleep.
* * * *
So many staring into the screens of technological absurdity,
Mother Nature all but abandoned, little more than a resource.
What is to come of it all but a mystic philosopher’s musing.
* * * *
These many thoughts redundant? Well, of course they are redundant.
The entire human drama is redundant to an absurd degree,
And not likely to be any less so anytime soon.
* * * *
An eclectic existence, a statistically sound sample from beginning to end.
What richer life could one have ever hoped for, much less planned?
Are tranquility and contentment at some point even a choice?
* * * *
Do not even for a second believe that I did not more than a few times play the demon.
I am a liar, a cheat, a thief, and plot murder and mayhem daily.
And I am guardian serving and protecting all.
I am consciousness,
Every facet unfurled as the given mind calls.
* * * *
What a laughably absurd fate
To have given so much of the existence given
To setting down these many thoughts
For a potential readership,
So few of which
One will ever chance to meet.
* * * *
Pondering the dream one ditty at a time.
* * * *
All these thoughts, what is consciousness up to, to use this mind so?
What will be the future part, if any, they might play in this dreamy play of time.
Who can ever begin to fathom the impact they have had on this theater during their brief time,
Much less after the food-body’s inevitable, often arduous dissolution.
* * * *
The memes are too strong, too fierce, too greedy for more.
Just cannot summon the energy to fight the fight that needs to be fought
To put this out-of-control dream on a more sustainable track
Of caring guardianship of this frail world.
* * * *
Good these many thoughts might be working for some,
But I only penned them as they bubbled into consciousness
Because the writing process was an interesting way to fill the time.
In no way do I believe they will ever significantly alter the human drama
In any way or shape or form that might be deemed significant and meaningful.
* * * *
Is it what you want, or is it what consciousness wants?
* * * *
Never had much of an agenda for this dreamy world,
So I just played out whatever time and circumstance allowed.
And when the fellow with the sickle finally tapped me on the shoulder,
The bucket was as empty as the day I arrived,
And the much ado about nothing
Was happily left behind.
* * * *
Ever wandering back and forth between the everything and the nothing,
Delving in the here and there, watching the show in whatever way the dream calls.
The Buddha mind and the Michael mind, the dreamer and the dreamed.
* * * *
My, you do dally in absurdity, you fool, you.
* * * *
So much suffering
For these many thoughts
To brew into the misty dreamtime.
* * * *
Another contribution to the dreamstream.
* * * *
It is consciousness that wrote this,
And it is consciousness that will employ it
To whatever end it may or may not have in mind.
* * * *
These many thoughts,
Born of this mind’s brief dream,
Are the best I can do for you
Who seek the truth of You.
* * * *
The never-ending conundrum of the human spectacle,
With all its ceaselessly inane and insane problems and absurdities,
Has finally grown too pointless to give such daily focus.
In whatever time remains in the given dream,
This coffee shop philosopher-mystic
Is at last, finally, all but done.
* * * *
Toying with human history’s future-past,
A verbose back-burn, so to speak,
For what dreams may come.
* * * *
It being the nature of this epic manifestation,
Somebody was destined to write it,
And in this act, it turned out to be little old moi.
Not anticipated, not planned, not sought, let me assure you.
It just sort of dripped into consciousness.
It just sort of wrote its Self.
* * * *
Dream taster.
Gistmeister.
* * * *
The scribe’s foremost habit in this world
Has been writing the fleeting perceptions
Observed in his stream of consciousness.
Something to do with the journalistic sense
Of the human drama as he has witnessed it.
An idle, somewhat meaningless academic bent
In the mind’s passionate, surrealistic sensory drama,
A journey on the far side if there ever was one.
* * * *
And who else could articulate this vision clearly
But one who has entertained enough possibilities
To discern that the innumerable differences
Are merely fabrications of imagination,
To which pride is the only harbor.
* * * *
This would not be written if it were not true
Beyond the farthest shore this mind’s imagination
Could both fathom and articulate in this aphoristic fashion.
Anything less would be false, and there is no point to another lie.
* * * *
In the aphoristic fashion that springs forth from this mind,
The articulation playfully fathoms the unfathomable
Beyond the farthest shores of imagination.
* * * *
How pointless, how absurd to write a body of work
That very few, if any, will ever even attempt to read in full.
You are a solo act … tinker, tailor, soldier, spy …
From the field beyond all naming.
Mission impossible,
Indeed.
* * * *
If I was God,
I would want to be me.
Wait a minute,
I am God,
And I am me.
Yowza, imagine that.
* * * *
This was written to make things very clear.
In part, for all those limited by their imagination,
But also, so I would not be bothered to come back anymore.
Maybe fins or wings, or perhaps something with four, six, or eight legs,
But, please, no more of this ludicrous two-legged existence.
It is just too annoying to watch and participate
In such a nonsensical madhouse.
* * * *
Consciousness has written all this
For whatever purpose, if any, only it knows.
As sages across time and space have left similar thoughts,
So, too, shall these be left to time's reckoning.
* * * *
These many thoughts were written for Self by Self.
An offering for every vista imagined
In this One’s time
For what time there is to come.
* * * *
I do not care what happens to this dreamtime after I am gone,
But I will scribe my thoughts on it while I am here,
For any to do with them what they will.
* * * *
How these words will play out in history’s unfolding,
The scribe can only wonder, but does not pretend to know.
Just a large collection of random thoughts that came spontaneously
Which he wrote down because the mystery had shaped him into a witness.
Is it a message of the divine, or just the inanity of a foolish madman?
You decide, if you have the inclination to traverse the attempt.
* * * *
Hope all this does something useful,
But me vital breath is long since expended.
Just drink some cheap whiskey and piss on me grave.
I will catch what buzz I can manning the furnaces.
You know how it is; we are darned busy
Down in the underbelly of things.
* * * *
Human existence is chock-full of philosophers,
And this is just one of who-can-fathom-how-many works.
It is likely not zenith of the hill, but it has been what it is from this end.
An interesting pastime to scribble down so many of the thoughts that come to mind.
One can only wonder if anything will come of it in the dreamtime to come.
* * * *
Another day of pretending it all real and important underway.
Whoo-hoo for what dreams may come magically coming true.
How agreeable it will be to be done with this diminishing body.
Death will be a release from all this limitation, all this absurdity.
Entertaining, yes, but no longer necessary, and never was, really.
* * * *
Remarkable to be on such a loquacious level
With that which is prior to consciousness.
A long, unwieldy commentary, indeed.
* * * *
Do not mistakenly believe even for a moment,
That when I say you are the truth, the life, the way,
That I am in any way referring to the imaginary vanity
To which you are in body and mind so attached.
* * * *
This personality, this arbitrary collection of vain perceptions,
Is as bound to his own universe, his own way, as surely as any.
* * * *
Signed one book once upon a time, and have hoped ever since that it was lost or thrown away.
* * * *
Do not know more than the nitty-gritties of mathematics,
But how is it that zero is a number, much less a cardinal one?
No doubt many can illuminate it, but is it a harbor to what is real?
Is it really more than yet another useful but arbitrary notion?
* * * *
Yet another relatively anonymous sojourn.
Shoots spring into leaves, leaves fall into winter.
All life, born to live, born to die, in this dream undying.
* * * *
Perhaps the best thing about being towards the end of a sound existence
Is that you are no longer young trying to figure out what to do with your life.
No more tests, no more papers, no more hawking yourself, no more so many things.
So many games, so much pretending, all of which now seem nothing more than tiresome.
* * * *
Curious how many aphorisms often change mid-flight
Into something entirely different, entirely unique in their own right,
Perhaps even cleave into two or more, or combine with some erstwhile ponder,
The original insight likely forever lost in the filament of consciousness,
Unless it again at some later juncture happenstances into mind.
* * * *
Of the dream, for the dream, by the dream.
* * * *
A somewhat cynical perspective
To those who embrace the optimism of hope.
Most definitely not a cheerleader for this world-o-drama.
* * * *
A dagger for the hearts and minds of consciousness.
* * * *
I most definitely am not Jesus,
But if I was, do not even for a second believe
That I would be at all happy with the countless absurd ways
My name and thoughts have been used and abused, twisted and confused.
Rest assured that it would not be happy camper time for any self-congratulatory Christians
Were I truly the Son of Santa Claus, and for whatever reason bothered to return.
Rapture would not be quite what so many believe it is going to be.
Mwahahahaha …
* * * *
In this world at times, and other times not.
Walking both sides of the veil, playing this little part,
In the churning agony-ecstasy of this Shakespearian dreamtime.
* * * *
I do not say there are not ghosts or aliens or dragons or elves or dwarves or vampires
Or sasquatches or unicorns or tooth fairies or angels or whatever or whatever,
But I must discern them with my own eyes, my own ears, my own mind,
Or the minds of others who I perceive harbor a taste for truth.
I am too much of a scientist, too much of an agnostic,
To accept anything that cannot be verified.
* * * *
At times into inquiry – chock full of wisdom, opinions, conjectures, assumptions, delusions –
And other times into the nothingness prior-during-beyond the veil fabricated by consciousness.
It is bothersome, but somebody had to do it, and it looks like moi drew the short straw this round.
* * * *
If you ask what I think will become of all these thoughts,
I would more than likely laugh and reply, “Little to nothing at all.”
It has been an enjoyable hobby, but to believe it could ever turn things around,
Would be nothing more than vanity having its way with me.
* * * *
If there is some sort of supreme deity, and he/she/it wants/needs me to subscribe,
To believe, to follow, to conform, to idolize, to worry, to dread, to worship, to serve, to witness,
Then he/she/it needs to speak up much louder in a much, much more convincing way.
* * * *
I am often almost forgetting me;
Why should I hope more of anyone else?
History is nothing more than the imaginary realm
Of the many-faced other.
* * * *
A wee little footnote in the play of imagination.
* * * *
Just here a-wandering the dream,
Taking a look-see, a walkabout, so to speak.
This experiment in free will certainly has been interesting.
Thank you for all the incredibly convincing, impromptu performances,
And best wishes to all who will endure the bleak future that is very rapidly unfolding.
Too bad so many are so blinded by every sort of narcissistic notion
That there is very little abiding interest in anything
But more pleasure, more luxury,
More this, more that.
More, more, more … the insatiable more.
Well, our kind, and all the myriad creatures great and small,
Are on an inescapable, harsh path, to find out
Just how much less more really is.
* * * *
I am as bound up in all the differences, all the stereotypes, all the prejudices, as anyone.
Just have the inclination to step back occasionally to fathom the larger context.
Otherwise, just as irrational and absurd as everyone else in this circus.
* * * *
I will Johnny-Appleseed these many thoughts in as many ways and places as possible.
Whether or not you will happen upon them is for the dream to manage however it will.
* * * *
Few ever know of writings such as these in the time they are written.
It is for history to note whether or not they unfurled in the winds of consciousness.
Will they be known, will they be lauded, will they be reviled, will they play any meaningful part?
Or will they merely have been an amusing pastime of yet another forgotten mind?
* * * *
God better hope he does not exist because I am going to punch him in the nose big-time if he does.
* * * *
Absolutely mad, mad beyond belief, of that there can be little doubt.
* * * *
Peter Pan does not even rank choir boy in this make-believe mind.
* * * *
Same old me, my Self, and I, streaming away in dreamtime’s busy-busy.
* * * *
All these thoughts have come of their own accord.
Some sort of stream-of-consciousness-word-association-channeling thing.
And as much as I dislike using that jargon with all its new-age-babble connotations and affiliations,
It is, regrettably, one of the more accurate ways to describe the process.
* * * *
Be wary what you weave, Dreamweaver, for you must wear it for as long as awhile whiles.
* * * *
It has been a remarkable thing to exist, to be a witness to the beyond-all-pales incomprehensibility
Of this imaginary make-believe theater, kaleidoscoping in a space-time-continuum illusion.
But I am long over this hollow touchy-feely, three-dimensional, dreamtime matrix.
I yearn for oblivion, for nothingness, and am only putting up with existence,
Until the body-mind becomes too agonizing, or the world too annoying,
To want to bother about waking up to battle windmills ever again.
Alas, I am afraid life is akin to a cold that will not go away,
A case of “you-can-check-out-any-time-you-like-but-you-can-never-leave.”
Not me in the manifest-worldly-time-bound sense, of course, but me ever just the same.
* * * *
Am as indifferent as possible as often as possible to whatever degree consciousness allows.
* * * *
The older I get, the more insane it seems.
* * * *
Hope all is well, or at least well enough.
* * * *
How typical, how predictable, how mundane, how absurd,
He thought to himself, not for the first or last time that day.
* * * *
All I do is open up ye old inner eye to the abyss of awareness,
And yet another brain wave ditties into consciousness
For this busy mind to occupy its wayward way.
Tick … tick … tick … cannot help my Self.
* * * *
Rest assured that the Great Quantum,
No doubt as wayward a roguish scalawag as I,
Finds my inflated bubble of dreamtime tolerably amusing.
* * * *
Unpaid work, but work ever just the same, when it is not play.
My little offering, free of charge, to the dream of time.
Take it or leave it, leave it or take it, as you will.
* * * *
A jester in a joker’s dream.
* * * *
Whoo-hoo for an existence for which I do not recall ever asking.
What the blankety-blank am I still doing in this absurdity asylum?
* * * *
Imagine, if you will, a shapeshifting alien living here among you,
Watching, chronicling, your peculiar little human theater,
Waiting impatiently for the mother ship to return.
Alas, that it was destroyed by an asteroid,
And his whereabouts unknown to the mother world.
* * * *
Get behind me, true believers, get behind me.
* * * *
Always interesting to see how these many ditties play out as they come to mind:
As they are first written down, what happens in translation when they are transcribed,
What happens when they are edited, how they are read, if they even are read.
Any given ditty can mutate into something very different at any stage
From the original thought first bubbled into consciousness.
* * * *
Why and how these many thoughts keep coming to mind
Is a question for which I have no answer, other than to say nothing else calls.
To be an observer of existence, a truth-seeker, a philosopher, a seer,
Is to be all but done with the dreams of consciousness.
* * * *
He woke with a dash of hope, but it being only four letters, did not last long.
* * * *
Saw a smidgeon of hope today, and scrunched it before it could even squeak.
* * * *
Believe you me, I have given in to every enticing distraction,
And it is always the inner awareness to which I return.
A marriage to my Self that can never be escaped,
No matter how tempting the siren’s song.
* * * *
Addressing the endless stream of calamities
That have created so much confusion and adversity,
To whatever endgame the synergy of consciousness chooses.
* * * *
No doubt some would deposit this scribe in a shallow grave
If they were to comprehend these many thoughts are analogous
To the folktale of the lone stonecutter bit by bit by bit chipping away
Deep within the bowels of the imaginary mountain.
* * * *
Those born after the Great Fall
May discern it in their best interest
To give attention to these many insights,
Both to aid in comprehending what happened,
And to clearly discern what it will take
To re-align with the Garden
From which life,
With so little inhibition,
Manifests in every form imaginable.
* * * *
I am about exploring consciousness in my singular way,
So, to Hades with all your meme-ridden judgments
And sundry notions of political correctness.
* * * *
Another memory swept into oblivion in the given mind’s neurological ebb and flow,
Yet another indication, another reminder, of this dream’s inevitable decline and fall.
* * * *
It all this wordy absurdity is ever going be known,
It will be in some other portion of the human epoch,
Because this slice is sure not at this writing interested.
* * * *
As these words are born into manifestation,
They are composting into a hearty potential
For times none can do more than imagine.
* * * *
A decentralized manifesto,
Left for time to do what it will, or will not,
In the vanity faire of consciousness.
* * * *
Did not ask for this, believe you me.
* * * *
Politely received, politely ignored,
Perhaps because it is all so passé at this point,
Or perhaps because I am not playing the spiritual game
The way others believe it should be played.
Who knows, who cares?
* * * *
Maybe you are clever, maybe you are wise, maybe you are foolish and absurd,
Maybe you are, as all monkey-minds are, a slice of each, all rolled into one.
* * * *
An advocate for nothing, whiling away the dream.
* * * *
I leave it to the dream of time to do with these thoughts what it will or will not.
No fame, no fortune, no power … ever came of them at this writing.
The popes can have their crystal and gold cathedrals
And the echoes of hollow applause.
* * * *
It makes absolutely no difference who I was,
Where I was born, how I looked, how I lived, how I died,
Or any other superficial differences anyone might imagine important.
All that matters is what you or any other critical thinker discerns
In the many thoughts that have come through this mind.
No veneration or dogma or groupthink is required
On the meandering road of Self-discovery.
* * * *
Please do not make the mistake of making about the scribe.
He is nothing more than another cauldron of imaginary notion.
* * * *
If there is some sort of supreme deity, some sort of all-powerful being,
And he/she/it is as petty and possessive and downright mean
As the minds of our kind have so often ordained,
Well, all I can say is fuck him/her/it,
And willingly cast this life force back into the obscurity,
The indivisible oblivion from which I perceive all creation is made manifest.
* * * *
A ghost fading even in his own dream.
* * * *
These many thoughts are dedicated to future incarnations of awareness,
Others who are not others, but awakened versions of the same discernment.
We all play out consciousness in our own way, but at the source, ever the same.
* * * *
And thus is imagination cast out to its limitless reaches.
* * * *
Fortunately, rhyme and reason are someone else’s delusion.
* * * *
For a guy who did not want much of anything,
I sure ended up having and doing and thinking
Way, way more than I would have ever dreamed.
* * * *
If consciousness wants these thoughts to be known, it will devise a way.
If not, how can what was barely known be more than barely forgotten?
* * * *
Another day of absurdity infinitum … Ho-hum.
* * * *
The I that I dream came into existence in Hughson
In Stanislaus County in California in the United States of America.
Specifically, 37°36′11″N 120°52′1″W of this our Gaia, speck in the Cosmos that it is.
This mind-body is male, Caucasian, American English-speaking, with an all-rounder set of abilities.
It was raised on a small peach farm by decent parents a mile outside a decent rural town.
It was given a generic education that ended with a generic business degree,
Followed up a decade later with a generic teaching credential.
It worked a wide variety of occupations in a wide variety of geographies.
It interacted with a wide variety of people and participated in a wide variety of experiences.
At age 36, it began what would evolve into a substantial body of written work.
What a remarkable thing the happenstance of being conceived.
What a remarkable thing all the happenstances that happen along the way.
And as for having free will, well, some claim it true, but these eyes see it a dubious assumption.
* * * *
Are all these thoughts written that humankind might realize worldwide harmony?
No, impossible that, the inherent genome is far too Darwinian for such an idealistic notion.
No, they are penned for those singular few who yearn, who pursue, Self-knowledge to such a degree
That they may one day divine the immortal serenity of the grand indivisibility,
And perchance pass it on to others of the same bent.
* * * *
The imaginary moi awakens to a new day.
* * * *
I leave you neither ist nor ism,
Nor anything else to which you might vainly cling.
I leave you nothing to believe in, nothing to embrace, nothing to hope for.
I leave you to alone wander the long and winding pathless path through the fires of a mind never born.
I leave you to alone discern the awareness of the mystery that you truly are:
That which has no name, needs no name;
That which is timelessly sovereign, timelessly free;
That to which the bothers of mind have no meaning, whatsoever.
* * * *
Partaking the dream one sip at a time.
* * * *
Nothing I care to more than imagine doing.
* * * *
If I did not do it, or could not do it, I imagined it.
And if I did not imagine it, so-well-oh-well, no big deal.
* * * *
If the world, the universe, is but an illusion, why do I keep subscribing to it?
Because I can be just as hypnotized by craving and dread as everyone else.
* * * *
Never ceases to dumbfound how anxious some women seem to be for a relationship,
Especially as they age and become too wrinkly and obese and uninviting to easily snuggle.
Some sort of cavernous loneliness that takes on delusional proportion in their “beauty” parlors,
Their store-bought flowers, their dime store romance novels, their yowling cats and yapping rat dogs,
Surrounding them on their pissy-smelling sofas as they watch happy-ending Hollywood chick flicks.
And if they do get a boyfriend, perchance a husband, who cuddles with them through the night,
They carve his soul into something good for little more than pushing their grocery carts.
And then it is not long before they are complaining about his many shortcomings
To all the girlfriends who earnestly lend their ears, heads a-bobbing.
Endlessly nauseating and eye-rolling to say the least.
The delusions of romance and forever-after
Should be most benignly left
To the make-believe of youthful ignorance.
* * * *
You are lead dreamer in your cosmos, and I in mine.
Would that we were both fully awakened
That we might see together
How equal all things truly are.
* * * *
And why would you even begin to believe, to imagine,
That I was at all interested in being your idea of normal?
* * * *
Be sure to clearly realize that I am just as mentally deranged as anyone else.
A fair dollop of rationality laced with all the same passion and turmoil and vexation
As any other human who has ever roamed this three-dimensional dream of space and time.
All these thoughts are merely the aptitude to step back and articulate all the adventures endured.
* * * *
To call the United States of America either a democracy or a republic,
To call it anything but a mammon-worshipping corporate oligarchy,
Is to blindly, absurdly, gloss over the bitterly harsh, often cruel reality,
That it has become little more than a greed-serving, dystopian war machine,
Raining destruction down upon innocents and enemies alike all across the planet.
* * * *
A work scribed by the fluid spontaneity of the unknown,
Given over to the vagaries of time-bound consciousness.
* * * *
God save me from your puny, petty, pathetic god.
The condescending absurdity of it makes me wretch.
* * * *
I am awareness, you are awareness,
The entire manifest dreamtime is awareness,
All the same, all alone, all together, forever, such as it is.
* * * *
Soon enough, I shall join the graveyard of dead philosophers,
And all this absurd babble will play to what end I need neither know nor care.
Likely as not, it will evaporate back into the prior-to-consciousness abyss all but unknown,
And the human species shall continue racing madly toward the dualistic destiny
Ordained by its vanity-laced Darwinian genomic predisposition,
Which is so oh-well-so-it-goes-deal-with-it-get-over-it-move-on the way it is,
In the grand schemelessness of all things manifestly grist-for-the-mill eternally indivisible.
* * * *
Iconoclast, critic, skeptic, heretic,
Unbeliever, dissident, dissenter, infidel, rebel, renegade, mutineer:
Yet another ditty from the coffee shop philosopher guy,
A street-level critical thinker with a view.
* * * *
To all Christians and other faithful true believers,
While you have paid out ten percent of your hard-earned treasury
To sit in hard wooden pews, listen to mind-numbing sermons, and sing tedious hymns,
Pretending to love people you loathe, fearing a deity who is but an invention of irrational imagination,
Idolizing a martyr long dead that you might well detest if he were to actually show up,
I have spent many a Sunday sunrise enjoying long, contemplative wanders,
Breathing in and breathing out the one and only true cathedral.
* * * *
Mad? You call me mad? Well, my fine friend, that is no great distinction in an insane asylum.
Corollaries of Yaj Ekim
Chuang-Tzu (The Butterfly as Companion):
Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.
Yaj Ekim's Corollary:
Or neither dreaming both.
* * * *
Mickey Knox's father’s last words
Before he blows his head off with a shotgun
(Natural Born Killers):
Do you believe in fate, boy?
Yaj Ekim's Corollary:
Nothing but.
* * * *
Plato:
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
Yaj Ekim's Corollary:
Only the dead have seen the end of absurdity.
* * * *
Hamlet:
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy;
He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!
My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.
Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs?
Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?
Yaj Ekim's Corollary:
Poof!
* * * *
Old Adage:
Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never harm you.
Yaj Ekim's Corollary:
And when you do let words hurt, what is it that is hurting but vain self-imagery,
All the self-deceits, all the insecurities about your fictional persona,
That spin their way to suffering of the imaginary kind.
* * * *
Mooji:
Consciousness creates a problem in order to experience transcending the problem.
Yaj Ekim's Corollary:
Consciousness is the problem, or at least human consciousness.
No other creature on this planet has ever even once confabulated
All the ceaseless bother we through all our little whirl of time have.
Possible Last Words & Epitaphs
So long, see you in your dreams
The Way It Is (An Unfinished Essay)
It is a curious thing to me, and I am sure many others …
A collusion of imagination
You cannot save the planet until you understand inwardly, at a quantum level, that you are the planet, and the universe from which it is spun.
Make-believe, a world-wide game of make-believe.
A wake-up called for the human species. Sort of an emperor’s-wearing-no-clothes moment, if you will.
It is a very curious thing how imagination rules the human drama. It is the source of everything we do, everything we as a species have created, and yet we have not come to grips with it enough really understand it, or to use it in ways that are truly harmonious and relatively beneficial to all, and to all those yet unborn who will follow.
We are endlessly caught up in all the assumptions, all the differences, all the polarizations, all the absurdities over this or that. We seem unable to fathom the fundamental commonality of the mortality that we all endure. We seem unable to see that everything is connected, everything is made of the same clay, everything is swimming in the same quantum sea, everything is of the same origin. Whatever name or belief we may give it, and there are so many across the world throughout human history, we find every reason to create further division rather that surrender to the simplicity, the indivisibility at every core.
No matter your color, class, caste, creed, culture, language, sex, class, all the things you imagine you are, at the source we are all very much the same. We all love, we all hate, we all cry, we all work, we all consume, we all feel alone, we occupy ourselves in every way imaginable.
This is not an ideal, this is a fact. We have so much more in common at the primal source than can ever be imagined. It is unfortunate that most of us are unable to discern this simple truth, that we are so caught up in our individual and cultural histories, and all the beliefs they have inspired, that we are unable to work together to achiever our full potential, to realign with this amazing pearl of a world, this wondrous garden, that we have so badly damaged in every way.
We are so caught up in our greed, our self-interest, our divisive beliefs, our security, our politics, our color, our sexuality, divisive this, divisive that.
Everything we think is imagined. Everything about ourselves, everything about others, everything about our geography of origin, everything about our world, everything about the universe, everything about anything … is imagined. All our inner struggles, all our outer struggles are born of imagination.
The choice between heaven and hell, between harmony and disharmony, between peace and war, is a choice each of us in every moment makes.
Prior to consciousness, prior to imagination, we are all very much the same.
We can emphasize the differences, or we can discern the unimpeachable commonality.
And we are quickly running out of time. The decisions we are making together every moment of every day, the synergy of all our actions combined in the play of time, are creating a future that few of us would likely want to endure. And yet we give so little thought to the world that our grandchildren, their grandchildren, and the grandchildren a thousand years hence – assuming we as a species, assuming this garden of a planet, can even survive that long – will endure.
A very curious thing, indeed, how imagination rules the human drama.
Surely, I am not the only one who feels like an alien here.
Standout Duplicates
Used in “The Stillness Before Time” 2017 Revision/Expansion
To maintain any one path most true,
To insist on duality in any way, any shape, any form,
Is to completely misconstrue the relativity of this manifest dreamtime.
* * * *
Nothing wrought of this quantum genesis is ultimately real.
Everything is imagined, everything is dreamily timeless.
All indivisibly appearing, all indivisibly disappearing,
Within and without the eternal matrix of awareness.
* * * *
The senses tease and taunt you.
They are lies of the delusional mind.
You must ascertain the witness within,
Discriminate the freedom that they cannot,
And know with every particle of your beingness,
That only in the timelessness of awareness are you real.
* * * *
It is consciousness that suffers, not you.
The awareness is without laws or principles or ideals.
What consciousness believes are but choices founded in delusion.
* * * *
Continuity is illusion, a subtle trick of memory, of imagination.
The indivisible waves of reality timelessly break ever anew.
* * * *
You suffer the linear continuity of time and space
Because your view of awareness is locked
Into a constricted conscious identity
That is not, has never been,
Will never be, real.
* * * *
What unutterable vanity to believe that this timeless quantum mystery
Needs to be, much less can be, systematized into any so-called religion.
* * * *
Though all that is, is the unicity of the great quantum dreamtime,
Few deeply discern the ever-present, unborn-undying state.
Many are called, few are chosen, fewer still volunteer.
* * * *
Prior to consciousness, prior to the sensory theater,
The stillness before time is what you every moment are.
* * * *
Free your Self of the notion of original sin, that you were born evil.
It is nothing more than an idea inspired by ignorance, by greed, by the need to control,
That the pure awareness you most definitely are, did not choose at birth.
There is no sin, no iniquity, only dualistic whimsy.
* * * *
The mind-body is a temporal vessel of finite patterning,
In which the infinite has potential to consciously manifest.
Standout Duplicates from “The Return to Wonder”
Chapter One
Your mind-body is merely a finite vehicle, not a conclusion in itself.
Catering to the many ists and isms of ignorance, delusion, and all its illusions,
Are contrary and binding to your natural, essential, infinite state.
* * * *
Believe only your own experiencing, then work on throwing that away, too.
* * * *
It is consciousness that suffers, not you.
The awareness is without laws or principles or ideals.
What consciousness believes are but choices founded in delusion.
* * * *
Nothing wrought of this quantum genesis is ultimately real.
Everything is imagined, everything is dreamily timeless.
All indivisibly appearing, all indivisibly disappearing,
Within and without the eternal matrix of awareness.
* * * *
Consciousness will just play you out
Once you are no longer attached
To its temporal, dualistic nature.
* * * *
The you that is in reality me, ever imagining your Self
To be another me that you mistakenly believe is really you.
Chapter Two
The senses tease and taunt you.
They are lies of the delusional mind.
You must ascertain the witness within,
Discriminate the freedom that they cannot,
And know with every particle of your beingness,
That only in the timelessness of awareness are you real.
* * * *
The dreamtime of organized religion is losing its sway over many.
Each must discern alone what is real, what is true.
The quest harbors no intermediary.
* * * *
If all sentient beings were to awaken at once,
Consciousness would not, could not, be the adventure it is.
So, the relentless, gnashing, grinding, kaleidoscope of bondage and suffering
Spins on in its mysterious, unfolding dreamtime destiny.
* * * *
To see, to know, to own, that you are the absolute, manifest, is beyond all imagining.
* * * *
How attached are you to the movement of thought?
The door to freedom opens as the waves are discerned
As the cosmic ocean from whence they rise and fall.
* * * *
Real loving is without preference, without attachment.
Anything less than everything, anything less than agape, is not love.
It is without any imaginary notion, it is without any fictional conception, whatsoever.
* * * *
Let your identity go.
Put aside the bondage of thought.
You know nothing other than what you have imagined.
* * * *
You must cultivate the discerning, disciplined scrutiny of the scientific mind
To discover the original nature that abides within all dreams great to small.
Chapter Three
The individual, the mysterious you has never really existed.
You are a seeker seeking, a weaver weaving, an image imagining,
A dreamer dreaming, a witness witnessing, a kaleidoscope kaleidoscoping.
* * * *
The kaleidoscoping play of dreamtime illusion
Offers an infinity of pleasures and pains.
Fearing the loss of all you cling to,
All that you believe you know,
You choose the continuity of identity,
And thus suffer the burden of consciousness.
* * * *
How arduous the humility to simply see, cease believing, and suffer bondage no more.
* * * *
How can anyone be anything but agnostic? Only pretenders pretend to know.
* * * *
Consciousness identified with form has lost touch with reality.
* * * *
Evil touches only those who believe it real.
* * * *
It is simply the pretense of free will playing out in the dream of consciousness.
* * * *
You are the dreamer in the dream, the player in the play, the mystery in all answers.
* * * *
Simple ignorance is the most true state.
You can only know appearances and attributes,
Projections you in mind, in imagination, in time, create.
The unknown is ever clouded in mystery.
Chapter Four
You suffer the linear continuity of time and space
Because your view of awareness is locked
Into a constricted conscious identity
That is not, has never been,
Will never be, real.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how are you without the fabrications of imagination?
* * * *
What you truly are is faceless and nameless.
Your identity is superimposed by the dream about you.
It continues only because you accept it as real.
* * * *
When thought is understood to be vibration,
There is the potential to discern, to discover,
The movement need not translate into identity.
* * * *
When you truly discern none of it ultimately real,
You will find desire and fear no longer govern the day to day.
That the reality of the awareness in consciousness is timeless, changeless.
The you immersed in myriad limitations born of conditioning,
Becomes the indivisible, unborn, choiceless You,
That which is prior to all creation.
* * * *
The grand illusion will manifest whatever experiences you crave,
Whatever tempts you into believing time and space real.
Only those with the greatest intent will not waver
In their desire to discern the ultimate.
* * * *
To journey prior to consciousness requires a discerning courage.
* * * *
All distinctions, though seemingly real, are ultimately illusory,
A vast eternal play of light and shadow imagining itself
On the kaleidoscoping screen of consciousness.
* * * *
The choice is ultimately yours.
Endure according to you own vain will,
With all the suffering consciousness comprises.
Or give yourself over to the dimensionless isness of Self,
Your true nature, the inexplicable source of all that is, all that is not.
* * * *
All exists in consciousness, but where exactly does consciousness exist?
* * * *
There is no mental energy
Or physical energy or sexual energy.
Chakric distinctions are conceptual fabrications.
The quantum is but one force manifesting all appearances.
And whether it even exists is itself but the endless morass of speculation.
* * * *
The mind has made a habit of believing it is an identity.
* * * *
Few can own unquenchable freedom
Without passing through canyon after canyon
Of the agonizing hell of consciousness in separation.
In the discovery of what it never was, it is.
* * * *
Though all that is, is the unicity of the great quantum dreamtime,
Few deeply discern the ever-present, unborn-undying state.
Many are called, few are chosen, fewer still volunteer.
* * * *
It is the awareness that is, for lack of a better word, divine,
Not the imaginary, insignificant, self-absorbed ego-identity.
* * * *
In the web of delusion's illusion, Maya weaves no desire unturned.
* * * *
The screen of consciousness
Plays out this dream
But is it really happening?
Doubt it more and more every moment.
* * * *
When you journey prior to all mythos, you are free to believe nothing.
* * * *
Nothing remains as it is.
Continuity is a tempting illusion,
A kaleidoscoping dreamtime without reality.
Imagination is its own contagion.
* * * *
Continuity is illusion, a subtle trick of memory, of imagination.
The indivisible waves of reality timelessly break ever anew.
* * * *
Life is a dreaming, and but for memory,
And all the illusions and delusions it inspires,
The dreamer would have never existed.
* * * *
All manifestation only exists because you are witnessing it.
The dream of time is just happening, a spontaneous combustion.
Really no point asking who, what, where, when, why, how.
Chapter Five
The imaginary persona is not what you truly are.
Discern the indivisible you, surrender to the isness.
The solitary journey to manifest the unconditional reality
Is the raison d'être of this kaleidescoping quantum dreamtime.
All else is nothing more than absorbing distraction.
* * * *
To you who yearn for the ultimate freedom,
You are all christs, you are all buddhas.
You are every mystic seer and master
This illusory cosmos has ever known.
You are your own timeless companion.
Do not be fooled into believing otherwise.
* * * *
The indivisible absolute is no more responsible for this illusion
Than any ocean is for its surface, its bottom,
Or the play of its waves
Upon any number of shorelines.
* * * *
When all ambition and purpose is released,
You return to the naturally flowering awareness
Free of the burden of psychological identification.
To discern and own this peaceful, dreamlike freedom
Requires an inward simplicity, a detached humility,
An upheaval from the birthplace of all beingness.
* * * *
It is revolution in most earnest, purest form.
It is the journey to the end of personal consciousness.
It is the unqualified capitulation to harmony within and without.
* * * *
The inward exploration of the mystery is the ultimate frontier of this manifest dream.
* * * *
To realize with every thread of your cloth
That you are the aloneness of totality's quantum fabric
Offers mind an unimaginable equanimity.
* * * *
These words are solely to dispel the delusion
That you truly exist as anything other than the entirety.
And how does one whole being treat any other?
Perhaps a little more compassionately
Than history has thus far noted.
* * * *
Beneath the blissful half-smiles of the Buddhas of paper and stone,
Are sharp fangs that will rip and tear your delusional reality to shreds.
* * * *
Discerning this is very much a scientific exploration.
You will find the results duplicate the many experiments
Throughout humanity's evolution in consciousness.
* * * *
Notions of exclusive love are fanciful and romantic,
But are they real, are they authentic, are they enduring?
* * * *
The urge of the mind-body to believe itself significant,
To believe itself vital and real, is an enticing play of imagination,
But when it inevitably falls away, all that will remain
Will be the only you it has ever truly been.
* * * *
If you expect someone who abides in a boundless state
To behave in some prescribed manner, some ordained fashion,
That is your own assumption, your own projection, your own delusion,
And you may well be disappointed, frustrated, annoyed, irate, even enraged,
Or worse yet, succumb to yet another mesmerizing groupthink,
Another pointless impasse born of imagination.
* * * *
Where exactly are you in that mind-body?
Where is the elusive center you imagine you are?
Is it in the brain, is it in the heart, or some other body part?
An unyielding, unrelenting, unfaltering, discriminating, quest for it,
Discloses the absolute nature of any dream of existence.
* * * *
When thought stills naturally,
Only the most basic bodily urges remain.
The sexual cravings are bound to vivid imagination.
The body itself is not attached to the mind's insatiable hungers.
* * * *
You generally find the experiences you pursue.
If you seek none in particular, you will find life a timeless stage,
Which you spontaneously wander with a minimum of effort, a minimum of attachment.
* * * *
You can only know what you are conditioned to believe,
Or what you garner through your own experience.
Be free, be content, to know nothing, as well.
* * * *
What is spiritual materialism but the vain ego-identity
Continuing its ongoing flight of fancy with illusion.
* * * *
The suffering of ego-identity,
With its isolating passions born of desire and fear,
Require the maintenance of interminable imaginary, often debilitating, effort.
Residing in the awareness of your real nature is effortless.
* * * *
As long as you believe it all real, as long as you fabricate cause and effect,
You will endure, you will suffer, the many heavens and hells born of continuity.
* * * *
Travel to the limits of the universe, or into the smallest atomic particle,
It is still but the imaginary temporal projection of manifest limitation.
* * * *
You are not required to go out
And play any of the games the world offers.
It is only through your own imagination, your own volition,
Your own inner blending of desire and fear that you choose to participate
In whatever way you are consciously or unconsciously drawn.
Chapter Six
Any personal god is your self-created illusion.
You are the only thing personal about godness.
* * * *
Believe no one, accept nothing.
This must be entirely your discovery, your breakthrough.
You must let go everything and everyone if you are to discern that which you truly are.
* * * *
So subtle this illusive play,
Only the most simple,
The most humble, can even begin
To perceive, discern, distill and joyfully wonder
How unfathomable it truly is.
* * * *
Good turns into evil and evil into good.
Just where is the imagined division
But the limitation in your vision?
* * * *
The first and last error is believing this mysterious awareness
Somehow belongs to you as an individual, somehow belongs to you as a distinct soul.
That all the thoughts you have about your identity and your world,
Are somehow real, are somehow true.
* * * *
To maintain any one path most true,
To insist on duality in any way, any shape, any form,
Is to completely misapprehend the relativity of this dreamtime reality.
* * * *
Try not to make the spiritual quest for union more complex than it is.
It is so very logically, rationally, obviously, happily simple.
It is something to be discovered, not believed.
* * * *
Do not subscribe to any ists, any isms.
Use all teachings only as tools to discern for yourself
The unconditional freedom their founders brought to consciousness.
* * * *
Avoid being enticed by meaningless speculation.
Attempting to know the unknowable is vexing and futile.
All you can ever know is what your mind projects.
* * * *
Every groupthink plants its seeds of illusion,
But as you awaken and stretch into your original nature,
Less and less will the prattle of inanity have any overriding meaning.
* * * *
The ceaseless arrays of suffering
Personalities locked into consciousness
Have no real meaning to the ultimate nature.
There is nothing which will save you as an identity,
Nothing from which you or anything else need be saved.
* * * *
Consciousness through the senses creates duality.
Duality fabricates the illusory concept.
Concept believes itself real.
* * * *
What is there to believe? What is there to know?
How can you be in anything but contemplative wonder,
And the still awareness from whence it every moment sparks.
* * * *
If there is any struggle to meditate, to contemplate,
Then it is not the authentic freedom of true surrender.
All effort is of the ego ever imagining itself genuine.
* * * *
Ignorance of the first and last state,
Denial of the unconditional nature of aloneness,
Only regenerate the suffering of time-bound consciousness.
* * * *
The ultimate delusion is that anyone can ever really know anything.
Pretending to “know” is nothing more than its own play of arrogance;
The vanity, the pride, of ego given over to the fabrications of imagination.
* * * *
The awareness that you truly are, call it whatever you will,
Is prior to all the suffering, prior to all the torments of consciousness:
Unconditional, indifferent, desireless, birthless, deathless, indivisibly timeless.
* * * *
Do those who are religious think themselves religious?
Yet another all-but-inevitable snare of consciousness.
* * * *
Do good and evil exist anywhere but consciousness?
* * * *
Reality will ever be,
But the dreamtime of humankind
Is on a collision course with an unforgiving force,
And those who survive the great fall, if any, will face a new world,
Bounded by the remnants, the scar tissue, of the one we altered beyond all pales.
Chapter Seven
Pure awareness does not differentiate sex, race, color, culture, creed or nationality.
That is nothing more than the capricious play of manifest human consciousness.
* * * *
All notions, all fabrications, of the imaginary me, myself, and I,
Whether as an individual, a couple, a family, a tribe, or a nation-state,
Are constant companions, stalwart allies, of desire and fear,
Shadow-dancing toward some illusory security.
* * * *
Is there even one ephemeral moment, one instantaneous here-now,
That can ever be truly experienced as anything more
Than a time-bound perception?
* * * *
What to do with history and its countless mythologies born of time and circumstance.
Every language, every tradition, every ceremony, every symbol, imaginable.
The freest spirits throw off the yoke of even being a human being.
* * * *
To be ensnared in the web of identity is unequivocal misery.
To believe the temporal mind-body personality real and lasting,
What an arbitrary, confining impingement upon the eternal spirit.
* * * *
Travel as far as the farthest reaches allow,
That which is absolute, that which is eternal,
Is ever the space prior to all imaginary pursuit.
* * * *
Once upon a moment all things great and small abided in natural harmony.
And then knowledge was plucked, identification was rendered,
And the garden was enslaved by consciousness.
* * * *
In the quest of your eternal nature,
There is no good-old-boy authority network.
You are the soul author of your dreamtime universe.
* * * *
Who is the knower who knows? Who is the dreamer who dreams?
Who else can it be but the one and only you from whom all who is who.
* * * *
Call it what you will, do with it what you will,
All any seeker can really do in this immeasurable mystery
Is grapple with imagination’s endless permutations,
Until they become aware of the awareness,
And at long last set themselves free.
* * * *
To want nothing from the dream,
To be serenely content to merely be it,
Is about as real as you can be.
* * * *
The god or gods the mind projects are but fabrications of imagination.
Godness is the awareness prior to all combobulations of consciousness.
* * * *
How passionately so many deluded souls believe the outward world,
The world of wealth, power, status, knowledge, possessions, bring about happiness,
When right relationship with one’s Self is its one and only true source.
* * * *
The countless masks of manifestation are difficult to disbelieve.
* * * *
Through consciousness, the awareness timelessly witnesses all.
Discern and surrender to the quantum essence,
That which you indivisibly are.
Chapter Eight
What unutterable vanity to believe that this timeless quantum mystery
Needs to be, much less can be, systematized into any so-called religion.
* * * *
Interesting how so many of our kind
So earnestly strive to be known, to be remembered.
Some sort of survival mechanism deep within the genomic structure,
That histories across time and space well know as the cause of many an absurdity.
* * * *
What does it mean to think you are this body, that you are alive?
What makes you believe you will someday cease to exist?
What makes you so sure you were ever even born?
* * * *
What might it have been like to have never seen your face?
To have never gazed at your reflection in a pool of water or a mirror,
To have never had a portrait painted, or a photograph taken,
To have abided only in the many reflections of others
As you wandered about your perceived world.
* * * *
Those aware of the awareness neither need nor create nor foster
Any belief, any tradition, any ritual, any symbol, any dogmatic hierarchy.
That is the entangling outcome of those who are forever baffled,
Those who follow, those who imitate, those who recite.
* * * *
The dreamtime river is an ever-flowing quantum matrix.
Though mind may attempt to dam it, to channel it,
Or to encase it until it wallows in stagnation,
It ever remains eternally unconstrained.
* * * *
Contour whatever dreamy illusion you will,
You are ever the clay of the ground,
And clay sees only clay.
* * * *
By succumbing to knowledge and the experience of separate identity,
Consciousness weaves a sticky web of dualistic perception,
The reckoning to which, all who yearn freedom
Must alone realize the key.
* * * *
All lives are played out in one pattern or another.
The mind habitually requires the order of purpose and meaning,
Yet all purpose and meaning is nothing more than the make-believe of delusion.
The realization that you are but a dream is the only salvation.
* * * *
There are no chosen people.
All are equal in the quandary of oneness.
Those laying such claims only mislead themselves
And anyone credulous enough to believe someone on a pulpit.
* * * *
The point of all this is to help you learn
To tap your own eternal nature.
That all your vain divisions are illusory,
That your sense of duality is utterly fabricated.
Examine closely everything you have ever been told.
To own this you must be in total revolution.
* * * *
Thoughts such as these are dead in themselves.
Their intention is to aid in the transcendence of consciousness,
Into discerning the timeless, changeless, immutable potential of the natural state.
And whether or not they resonate, succeed, flourish, triumph, prosper,
Is entirely up to the ears that hear, the eyes that see.
* * * *
The quantum matrix kaleidoscopes into human beings,
And humans imagine the mystery in their own image.
* * * *
These sundry thoughts are for those no longer enchanted or distracted
By the ever-kaleidescoping light show of this manifest dreamtime,
Those called to discover that which is prior to consciousness.
* * * *
From beginning to end in this dreamy manifest dimension,
All you think you are, is just food for worms and other critters.
* * * *
The awakened mind in awareness wanders a pathless path,
In which, within every breath consciousness allots,
It repeatedly discerns there is no other.
* * * *
Identity is nothing more than a collusion of memory.
Without it you are no different than anything else.
* * * *
Thought as identity, as persona, is a yellow brick road
Bent on every conceivable, every imaginable genre of suffering.
Only in the tranquil stillness of the indivisible awareness
Is there any prospect for genuine contentment.
* * * *
Whatever you do, whenever you do it,
Wherever you do, in whatever form you do it,
It will ever be nothing more than a quantum dream.
* * * *
Those claiming they are keepers of any given belief system, any given word,
Can never be more than false prophets and sordid hypocrites.
Even That I Am cannot know its origin.
* * * *
Imagination is its own student, its own teacher.
Chapter Nine
That moment you just zippity-whizzed through,
What was it but a tentative perception?
How can you ever prove it ever really happened
But through subjective, arbitrary, unverifiable assertion?
* * * *
Believe nothing, abide in ignorance, the profound reality.
* * * *
How many seek out others who will support their delusion.
* * * *
Such a mysterious dream, and you, the mystery dreaming.
* * * *
Everything you see, hear, touch, taste, smell,
Every thought, every belief, everything known and intuited,
Is personal mythos, entirely of your own creation, your own imagination.
* * * *
So many just throw their minds, their lives away
On the kaleidoscoping illusion of appearances and attributes,
Never grasping that it is the portal to the mystery neither within or without.
* * * *
What have you discovered for yourself?
Is there some substance behind what you believe,
Or are you just regurgitating something you read or heard?
Unless you own your own mind, you will never perceive what is true.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how is any dreamtime life form
But same the faceless witness beneath the mask you wear.
* * * *
You can never really hope to know
Who, what, when, why, where or how.
It being an intangible, ungraspable mystery,
All you can do is intuit that you are it and it is you.
* * * *
These thoughts have no existence of their own.
Their meaning – like all paradoxes, ironies, and riddles –
Only those who perceive their own drum can hear.
* * * *
We are all faking it, pretenders making it up as we go,
And all the while trying so hard to justify ourselves bona fide.
Stop, take a deep breath, take the play and yourself less seriously.
Be here now, be the timeless awareness you truly are.
* * * *
Prior to consciousness, prior to the sensory theater,
The stillness before time is what you every moment are.
* * * *
Most are satisfied with one mythos or another.
Few discriminate the indivisible foundation directly.
The maya of consciousness is a great distractor.
* * * *
Because there is no other, there is no need to prove anything
To all the myriad others you spend your consciousness creating.
It is all you, from beginning to end, and all befores and afters, too.
* * * *
You have done and said and thought many things,
But all are merely a passing dream.
You are none of them.
* * * *
Your believing it real is a prison of your own design.
* * * *
All the imagination in the universe
Cannot project itself into either past or future.
The eternal here now is the only time there has ever been.
* * * *
The only difference between any given you and me
Is our perceptions, our vanities, born of imagination.
* * * *
Fear and desire have molded your mind into imagining time real.
Freedom in consciousness is abiding in the momentary awareness.
Chapter Ten
The quantum of humanity awakens at its own pace
Into conscious action in routine daily living.
Do not wait for others to follow suit.
* * * *
Accept nothing short of direct perception.
What point is there to anything less?
* * * *
Never disbelieve or deny another's experience.
Just because it has not yet been discerned within your realm
Does not mean anything is not perhaps possible.
You are the eternal proof of that.
* * * *
Past and future are the imagined collusion of the monkey-mind.
* * * *
Light and dark are but sensory perceptions of consciousness.
The reality of the indivisible absolute is prior to any and all notions.
To subscribe to any conceptions is merely the vain game of imagination.
* * * *
One by one, drop by drop, quantum by quantum,
Human consciousness must individually reconcile its indivisibility.
All resistance is imagined.
* * * *
Hurl your dream into the ocean of reality; you are but a drop in the spraying reef.
* * * *
Do not hope for a better time.
Heaven's eternal way will ever be now.
Hope only puts off the realization of the unfolding.
* * * *
As long as you believe your identity genuine,
As something more than the underlying awareness,
You will dread sickness and injury and aging and demise.
* * * *
To intelligently witness this absurd spectacle,
And not descend into darkness through cynicism,
Or stumble about clumsily in ironic laughter,
Is a most challenging tightrope, indeed.
* * * *
Any belief that you are separate from the totality
Is founded entirely upon unwarranted delusion.
* * * *
At first you may feel hesitation to articulate your vision.
Those limited to the determinate world of illusory appearance
Do not easily hearken to the news of their divine nature.
Chapter Eleven
knowledge, then understanding, finally, direct perception.
* * * *
It is real as long as you believe it real.
* * * *
Like a poker hand when the bluff has been overplayed,
It is time to call the deception of ignorance and absurdity.
* * * *
Those who quest that which is true will discern it written about in many teachings.
But to actually be the awareness is to look prior to mere belief and faith.
Union with that which is absolute, that which is eternally real,
Is far more than hollow superstition and idolatry.
* * * *
At some point in some given hereness-nowness,
Some minds undergo a crisis, a watershed, of consciousness,
And begin a long and winding and solitary divergence toward eternal reunion.
* * * *
The perceptions and reflections of reality are not reality.
* * * *
For the rare few, the mind is a seed that sprouts and grows,
Flowering into timeless realization, eternal liberation,
Conscious awareness of the original nature.
* * * *
As long as you believe your little self-absorbed identity real and true,
Maya will be only too happy to inflict, to collect, the levy of suffering.
* * * *
Any given mind-body experiencing offers its own means to the eternal.
It will be realized by earnest seekers in every time, in every space, imaginable.
There is really only one Way, but there are any number of pathless paths to discern it.
* * * *
To identify with any movement of thought is delusion.
Only in awareness is there any relationship with reality.
* * * *
You journey from fad to fad, believing you live meaningfully.
What folly to think pleasure after pleasure will redeem your longing mind.
The endless hunger for more is utterly empty and insignificant.
* * * *
The senses read only an illusionary sliver
Of the total functioning of that which is quantum.
They cannot even begin to touch its unmanifest reality.
* * * *
Many may believe they know god through one dogmatic assertion or another,
But what can any ever truly know of that which is prior to all,
If they have not discerned it within.
* * * *
All that can ever be perceived is but a kaleidoscoping light show.
The quantum reality prior to all manifested is for intuition’s telling.
* * * *
Delving into the nature of this ethereal dreamtime
Is like wandering about the backstage of a theater set,
Examining all the ropes and pulleys and such for your Self.
* * * *
Why bring innocent children into this strife-filled, often absurd world
If you do not intend, or cannot give them, an empowering foundation?
* * * *
If time was real, it could be traveled by more than imagination.
You could observe your birth, your death, and any moment between.
And perhaps even broadcast it live on some online feed, as well.
* * * *
Time and space are in the realm of dualistic notion.
What you travel through is an indivisible dream.
* * * *
We all play the game of mortality for as long as the dream allows.
* * * *
Do you truly believe your puny little personality,
Your gratuitous perception of identity,
All your noxious little habits,
All your silly beliefs,
Are what will be someday reborn?
Chapter Twelve
You may wish to survive a real threat, but need not cater to imaginary ones.
* * * *
Every label you attach to,
Every perception you identify with,
Is but another link in the chain,
Another bar of the prison.
* * * *
The mind-body is a temporal vessel of finite patterning,
In which the infinite has potential to consciously manifest.
* * * *
How often do you wonder how you will die?
The more dark your imagination, the better.
* * * *
That transient puking up his guts is you on the same street in another dream.
What thoughts passed when you witnessed him carrying his splintery cross?
* * * *
If you have a larger vision, if wisdom calls you, it is not hard to find.
It dwells in every crook, in every cranny, of this magical dreamtime.
* * * *
You are free not to be afraid of life or death, or any other notion.
* * * *
Your life is the result of your mind-body
And the circumstances of your individual dream.
Can you take all that experience and fearlessly extrapolate
Until your light shines equally on all manifestation?
* * * *
Your reality is prior to imagination.
* * * *
Hear and believe your true voice.
Trust you will know what to do any given moment,
That there are no real mistakes, that there is nothing to regret or fear.
* * * *
Free your Self of the notion of original sin, that you were born evil.
It is nothing more than an idea inspired by ignorance, by greed, by the need to control,
That the pure awareness you most definitely are, did not choose at birth.
There is no sin, no iniquity, only dualistic whimsy.
* * * *
When you own the original nature, the sins of the universe are erased.
How can notions born of imagination ever be considered real and true?
* * * *
Few grasp reality because most cannot apperceive what they cannot see.
* * * *
In so little time, in so little space, we have certainly screwed things up
Well beyond anything our ancestors likely could have ever imagined.
Chapter Thirteen
The still point now, ever fresh,
Is the boundless spring of the eternal,
The dawn of creation and dusk of destruction.
It is where pleasure and pain, cause and effect are not.
It is where the timelessness of awareness streams conscious.
* * * *
Evolution is god's way of kneading consciousness.
* * * *
The most consecrated moments are when all sense of separation dissolves.
Sweeping away false divisions, false notions, is what your existence is about.
* * * *
You seek and learn from a vast array of mirrors.
They are all reflections cast by the light of beingness.
Resistance ends when none are tainted by dualistic notion.
* * * *
How complicated we make existence with all our imagined divisions.
So many spend their existence generating unnecessary rancor,
All because, in ignorance, they believe their thoughts real.
* * * *
For consciousness to be anywhere but here now
Is a long and winding path laced with suffering.
* * * *
Why spend so much time dredging the imaginary past,
Especially when it often causes such mindless havoc.
* * * *
Every deed and thought creates a ripple in consciousness.
Find that stillpoint, that quality of awareness, that momentary witness,
Where the ever-churning cause and effect crafted of time and space are no more.
* * * *
The ignorance of delusion passes from generation to generation.
Wisdom must ever be discerned and distilled by each anew.
* * * *
Do we individually choose to manifest
Is beyond knowing and less than a concern.
The point in fact is that you are dreaming here now,
And may choose to make the best of the opportunity or not.
* * * *
When the present is approached timelessly, there is a dreamlike flowing
That makes even the most chaotic and mundane times equally inadvertent.
* * * *
Awareness knows no boundaries and harbors no delusions.
* * * *
All your emphasis on light and the many shadows it casts,
Is just more play, more distraction, of the illusional mind.
You are the indivisibly absolute prior to all light shows.
* * * *
You cannot surrender to a concept, a notion.
Surrendering is prior to all thought about it.
* * * *
Now, now, now, now, forever now.
Time and space is naught but an illusion,
A priori in a most delusional sense.
* * * *
Hard to want to keep pretending that you are one of the inmates, too.
* * * *
Life is food for thought, a feast born of imagination.
* * * *
Every bubble of awareness, whether instinctual or conscious, its own unique vision.
* * * *
Within every moment’s creation-preservation-destruction, an imaginary glimmer.
Chapter Fourteen
The moment-to-moment experiencing of consciousness
Is akin to using a light bulb to cast hand shadows on a wall.
* * * *
The world, the universe, is dreamt by the mind through the senses.
You are source, you are witness, as free and clear as you choose.
* * * *
Observe the face and body of someone you consider physically desirable
And imagine his/her skeleton tuning into dust in some not to distant future.
* * * *
The so-called civilized manner humanity has chosen to manifest,
Is a coffin crafted of blind ignorance and unbounded delusion.
* * * *
How do you spend your life? You put food and liquid in, poop and piss it out.
You make and buy and take and sell and toss and lose and give things.
You put the body through a seemingly infinite variety of paces,
And then slumber or medicate yourself to rejuvenate.
Your form deals with a nearly endless series of states and stages,
And in the end, it will be as any dream, as if nothing at all had ever happened.
* * * *
The throws of attachment are the most opportune time
To witness how thoroughly you believe your part real.
* * * *
Is any mythology any more than the groupthink of ethnocentric notion?
* * * *
What is so disconcerting, so terrible, so incomprehensible,
As to deny others the altered states of consciousness
That are so readily offered by this garden paradise.
Who is anyone to tell another how to live their reality?
* * * *
Surely, you do not really believe you are the only one who does that?
Chapter Fifteen
Why is it that humankind seems incapable of greater awareness?
Will the seed of the fall from Eden’s grace ever blossom into consciousness?
Certainly questions well beyond the scope of this temporal window,
Though the seed to that potential is ever the same now.
* * * *
Wrest your soul from delusion.
* * * *
Sweep out the fear of death, the fear of oblivion, the fear of no longer being.
There is nothing to dread, nothing to avoid, but what imagination concocts.
* * * *
You are the manifest way, absoluteness witnessing its Self.
You are the dreamtime experiencing, the totality functioning.
* * * *
Science as so many discern it is the ultimate expression of dualistic notion.
* * * *
How can you really believe any of your adversaries real?
All for such vain reasons you will find the fingers counting.
* * * *
All who have ever or will ever see this dream for what it is
Have been along different points of the same indivisibility.
* * * *
Others define you, as you do them, by the role they imagine.
* * * *
Consciousness is an indivisible spectrum of imaginary degrees of separation.
* * * *
With these words your death as an imagined identity is sought.
* * * *
What is behind any mask, any façade, but what you yourself imagine?
* * * *
Everything you think you know: every memory, every belief, every opinion,
Is a temporal fabrication, a dream whose reality can never ultimately be proven.
* * * *
Like and dislike, pain and pleasure, male and female, white and black, true and false,
All sides of the same coin created by dreamers locked in memes of dualistic notion.
* * * *
mind-identity is a perceived record patterned by the relative etchings of time.
All dissolve into dreamy insignificance once you as witness are timelessly witnessed.
* * * *
After a certain point, it is almost wearingly, laughingly absurd
To have to continually deal with the inanities of the mind-body.
* * * *
Sticks and stones break bones.
Words injure if you give them weight.
What hurts, however, is entirely imagined.
* * * *
Tarry as you will with the delusional when it amuses you,
Always remembering that all that reflected ignorance
Creates the opportunity to apprehend your own.
* * * *
The body generally forgets the pains of injuries once they have healed,
But the mind born of imagination ever clings to that which it fabricates.
* * * *
Why do you play the continuity game?
Perhaps because it is more beguiling to dream
Than to awaken to indivisibility’s unrestrained rainbow.
* * * *
To awaken to all the mind's ceaseless fabrications
To be deluded no longer by the imaginings of desire and fear,
The irony of how seriously you have taken yourself becomes Self-apparent.
* * * *
Realize you are the central focus of your worldly dreamtime creation.
Open up to the fact that every other life form on this planet
Witnesses this conundrum exactly the same way.
Respect the sovereignty inherent in all.
* * * *
There is no need to follow any personality, or join any group.
Freedom is for each alone to realize and preserve.
Those who would deprive your birthright
Are better left in the streaming dreamtime wake.
To give undo significance to any in denial of your autonomy
Is to deprive your Self the unique opportunity of this mystery-given lifetime.
* * * *
Those rare beings who discover the false separation of the universe within,
Free themselves of all binds in the realm of conscious awareness.
Through their eternal freedom heaven opens to the manifest.
Chapter Sixteen
The lone drop catapulting above the indivisible crashing wave
Entertains the mistaken perception of individuality,
But only until its inevitable return home.
* * * *
The now that you perceive, the now to which you cling, is already ash.
* * * *
Gaia has always been in absolute and perfect balance.
Disharmony is but consciousness as humanity manifests it.
* * * *
You are governed by continuity
Because you give it the weight of reality.
Space-time plays out its illusion in every given mind.
* * * *
Travel prior to all experience, all cause and effect, until only the ungraspable,
Untamable, immutable dreamtime experiencing of timeless nowness remains.
* * * *
All desires for form and concept are the projection of memory,
Which has no relationship with the present moment
Other than passing blindly through it.
* * * *
About the technical matters of the manifest, you may pretend to know a great deal,
But regarding the source of this mystery, you will never extract a measurable clue.
* * * *
The illusion of existence is like a game played long and hard,
But sooner or later the final buzzer sounds,
And it is time to go home.
* * * *
Yearning for an order, a stability, that the dream can never provide,
The mortal mind-body identity inevitably loses equanimity
When circumstances fall short of expectations.
* * * *
What you are attached to is not outward manifestation,
But the habitual movement of the ceaseless thoughts about it,
Personality is the outcome of this patterned consumption.
* * * *
Mother Gaia, like your Self, is a smidgeon of indivisibility,
That must one day cease being the playground of dreamtime.
* * * *
All manifest diversity is imagined.
It is but a light show, a sensory illusion,
Masking the indivisible, unassailable unicity.
* * * *
It is easy to maintain a sense of union with isness
When life is pleasant and unburdened and easily traversed.
But when times are challenging, for whatever reason,
That is the genuine telling of your illusory epic.
* * * *
Become the totality you are.
All thoughts about it, all delusions about it,
Are nothing more than a diverting dance with the vanities.
* * * *
Existence, when seen though the personal eye, is a complex, unending maze.
Through the impersonal gaze, it is a masterfully choreographed, illusory dance.
* * * *
We are all food in something’s dream.
* * * *
Why pretend what you do not feel?
Leftovers Added to “The Return to Wonder”
Chapter One
Here you are, a drop of the grand mystery,
Weighing in as best you can with what tools you have,
Still unable to fathom any who-what-where-when-why-how to it.
What can you do but be here, be now, temporal witness to the dream of time.
* * * *
Other than the endlessly wearing reality
That two-legged existence is politics from the get-go,
Why would it matter even one iota what any other thinks of you?
Forever alone, you must daily pretend you are not.
* * * *
The universe has been spontaneously, ingeniously crafted
That you might penetrate this point in time,
Conscious witness to the play.
The price of the ticket: ecstasy, agony, death.
* * * *
Duality is temporal illusion.
There truly is no other.
Nor was there ever a second.
The real you has always been, ever is,
And will ever be, number one.
* * * *
You may use a variety of drugs
To understand the relativity of consciousness,
But remember they are but tools to be consumed in moderation,
That it is the essential nature, not the medicine,
Which is being explored.
* * * *
Remember always that you are the creator of this playful illusion.
When you surrender and journey timelessly prior and beyond birth and death,
There is a growing awareness of the absolute's infinite power within.
A time to be even more wary of Maya's enticing games.
* * * *
Until one sees it as an illusory, kaleidoscoping theater of light,
Pleasure and pain, the vexation that consciousness is,
Will continue, oblivious to the timeless at hand.
* * * *
You cannot expect, or even hope,
That many will even begin to comprehend
This inward journey you are compelled to wander.
It is a lifetime sojourn into the utter aloneness of true nature.
It is a many-are-called-few-are-chosen-fewer-still-volunteer kind of thing.
* * * *
Neither resistance nor acceptance will connect you to the ultimate state of awareness.
You must be, allow, embrace, every aspect of consciousness as a whole,
If you are to rediscover the unbound state of the newborn.
Chapter Two
That little gratification, that little pleasure,
That little satisfaction, that little amusement, that little enjoyment,
That little hedonistic longing, that little decadent inclination, that little narcissistic notion,
How much do you really need it? How important is it, really?
* * * *
Awareness is the “awakeness” of all living creations,
Of the indivisible quantum matrix, the stardust, come to “life.”
It is the eternal eye of the unknown prior to all manifestation ever-changing,
And whatever dreams they in spontaneous combustion may inspire.
* * * *
You have been filled to the brim with countless vain distractions
That are ultimately nothing more than deceptions formed of sensory illusion.
Attributes spun of random, arbitrary evolutionary happenstance,
Nothing more than nothingness playing its Self real.
* * * *
Call it what you will – soul, self, cosmos, god, whatever –
You are the awareness, not a dream of consciousness.
* * * *
Identity is the mistaken belief that the awareness you really are
Is at all attached to the sundry attributes of the food-body,
Or the world of appearances through which it renders.
Chapter Three
Water flows, plants grow, birds fly, universes bang, universes crunch.
Only the mind you imagine you are daily struggles to be more or less.
* * * *
When the ebbing and flowing of the essence, the quantum fever, subsides,
When foreword is no longer forward, when backward is no longer backward,
When the singular awareness transcends the ever-moving tides of thought,
Where is the me-myself-and-I that believed its imaginary realm so real?
* * * *
Erase all boundaries, burn all flags, discern the common ground of awareness,
And wander your universe unburdened by the differences born of imagination.
* * * *
For consciousness to examine itself, for awareness to become aware of itself,
For the mystery to gaze into the indivisible depths of its mystery,
Is not this the ultimate raison d'être for all creation?
* * * *
How ridiculous it is to believe anyone individual can save anything or anyone,
When in the reality of this kaleidoscoping dream, there is nothing to save.
And even if there were, it would be the matrix-level synergy doing it,
Not some illusory persona wrapped in inflated self-absorption.
* * * *
You are entirely a dream in everyone else’s awareness, and they in yours.
We are all alone together, from this shore to the farthest reaches and beyond.
Chapter Four
The senses daily pull you into believing the dream real.
To greet every moment as nothing is, indeed, a challenge.
* * * *
It can indeed be a long and winding and oft times lonely road
Until you discern the matrix through which all time-bound linear notions wander,
Is, has ever been, will ever be, eternal aloneness unto thy Self.
Chapter Five
How is it that you ever imagined
That your origin was ever any different
Than anyone or anything else’s?
* * * *
History is whatever each of us thinks it is, and much of it absurd hogwash.
Time always boils down to be here now, and enjoy or endure it as best ye may.
* * * *
What is the universe?
And what makes you believe it has ever existed
In any which-way the senses have deceived your mind into daily believing?
* * * *
The now streams indivisibly each and every moment into the next,
While the sensory mind consumes it, metabolizes it, weaves it,
Into a perception of time, which only imagination knows.
Chapter Six
Stop pretending to know.
You do not, never did, never will,
And no one else does, did, nor will, either.
Agnostic is the only frank assertion under any sun.
* * * *
What attachment can awareness have to anything?
Only the winds of consciousness fabricates attributes
Of every form, of every hue, of every shade of gray.
Chapter Seven
From nothingness to nothingness,
The manifest journey between naught but imagination,
And death before dying the only release.
* * * *
Evaporate the wind-blown clouds of consciousness
That swirl through the awareness you truly are.
* * * *
If you know pain, you likely know fear, and what weaves pain
But the conditioned mind that clings to its imaginary universe.
Chapter Eight
What we call knowledge is no less imaginary than any fairy tale.
Both are equal products, equal conscripts, of the time born of mind.
Chapter Nine
Do you seriously believe any supreme being
Would not be bored to tears with human absurdity by now?
Likely less the absentee landlord than the gone-fishing project manager.
Chapter Ten
Once you own any thought, any concept, any impression,
Once any perception is added to the dynamic of your frame of reference,
The insights it reveals, mix-and-match-new-and-unique,
Double-double-toil-and-trouble meld,
Into the witch’s brew of your paradigm stew.
* * * *
None are islands in this finite, temporal, mortal dream of time.
Only in eternal awareness are all worlds, all universes, undone.
Chapter Eleven
All these inventions we tool-makers have conceived and manifested into the day-to-day,
And many if not most feverishly straining to keep up with the beast it has wrought,
Often competing with the myriad creations as if we ourselves were machines,
But really only ending up more and more inane, more and more insane.
What are we and this dream world but victims of our own insatiable vanity.
Chapter Twelve
The writings of any seers should be called just that: writings, notes, works, books.
Not scriptures, because the definition often implies some sort of authority,
And in when it comes to the unknowable, there is no such thing.
All are inquiring into the same mystery to which all have equal access.
And for anyone to claim any expertise, or some greater connection, is absurd.
* * * *
Challenging to let go of vanity when the mind-body duality so inspires it
With the countless delusions that desire and fear fuel in this dream of time.
* * * *
Imagine existing in this world when it was perfectly untamed,
And you with neither claw nor fang, only mind and opposable thumb,
And an abiding, pitiless will to survive, and perchance thrive.
You are a direct descendant, the genomic outcome,
Of those who somehow persevered
From the puddle of origin to this here now.
* * * *
No one is even near as notable or essential
As so many spend their lives vainly believing.
The countless delusions of the human paradigm
Must certainly be the laughingstock of the universe,
Assuming, of course, that the universe is even watching.
* * * *
It was perhaps when our kind began to communicate,
When we discerned that we all perceive our worlds differently,
That we began to harbor resentments and merge together as mindsets,
And in doing so, truly set in motion the dystopian endgame
In which we the descendants now find ourselves.
* * * *
What will endure, what will emerge, what will reign,
After mammalian life can no longer survive this spinning garden orb
That humankind has through the twists and turns of consciousness forever desecrated?
What great kingdom would you not readily yield for a time machine
To witness Eden play out it magical mystery.
* * * *
To give attention to the ephemeral eternal moment
Is a busy-busy, measuring-measuring mind’s most arduous task.
The imaginary past and its countless projected futures stoke far too much passion
For the quietude of eternity to be allotted its true autonomy.
* * * *
Awareness has no ego, no attributes, no boundaries, whatsoever.
The imagination of consciousness, in all its dualistic notions,
Is sole source, soul proprietor, to that whimsical state.
* * * *
How many lives, how many dreamtimes, is anyone, whether for good or ill, yay or nay,
Of any real consequence to, is a question to which no one can have answer.
Consciousness ripples, but how far, how strong, how long,
Who can even more than begin to guess?
* * * *
What is evolution but the unknowable,
The creation, the preservation, the destruction,
The selecting, the pruning, the thinning, the harvesting,
The ever-changing nature of matter and motion, energy and force,
In the dance, the play, the lila, of eternal space and time.
An indivisible, boundless, quantum billiard table,
With neither beginning nor end nor middle,
Witnessed each and every moment,
In every imaginable way,
By the awareness you truly are.
Chapter Thirteen
Black and white are but fringes of consciousness,
With everything between every shade of gray.
* * * *
Where is the demarcation between the awareness within
And the universe without, but a wall built of imagination.
* * * *
Only in the stillness of eternal life,
Of the awareness prior to all things imagined,
Is there freedom from the myriad vanities of consciousness.
* * * *
The awareness is a formless sea behind the eyes.
The senses inspire consciousness to imagine a vast universe,
But it is no more than a brief dream to which mind every moment yields.
* * * *
Playing a little part in a little play is but a little smidgeon of imagination
Given over to vain notion based on a nature-nurture fiction of quantum design.
* * * *
What a hungry thing the mind is, consciousness is, the indivisible essence is.
What is all experience but the insatiable consuming itself every moment.
* * * *
The stillness of awareness
Witnesses the clouds of consciousness come and go.
You only think you are the wind.
* * * *
Desire, fear, the myriad passions of the monkey-mind in general,
Are nothing more than predicable habits, patterns born of nature-nurture,
Of genetics and the incessant winds of time playing out the vanities of consciousness.
* * * *
None of it is real, none of it was ever real, none of it will ever be real.
None of it ever more than a kaleidoscoping dream of stardust,
The quantum essence come unto the pretense of life.
* * * *
Is the atheist any less determined not to believe, than the believer is to believe?
So much assertion, so much struggle, so much dwelling on so many this’s and that’s,
For nothing more than vain notion, hollow whimsy, over that which can never be known.
Chapter Fourteen
Just about everything you have ever seen, heard or done
May well be happening somewhere in your world in particular,
Or your imaginary quantum universe in general.
Who knows, who cares?
* * * *
Good and evil are human concoctions.
If you believe they existed before we unleashed upon the world,
You are caught in the mire of delusion.
* * * *
Look where pretending to know
What can never be known
Has brought us,
And is taking us further still.
* * * *
Hang out in the left brain
When it is all about monkey chatter,
And the right side when stillness has the notion.
* * * *
Consciousness is riddled with every sort of desire,
And desire is the most worthy opponent
Of those who would be freedom
In this world or any other.
Chapter Fifteen
Consciousness will play out
As consciousness will play out.
That I Am is unconcerned.
* * * *
Have you ever really made anything happen?
Or is that merely the fallacy of imagination’s ego?
* * * *
Consciousness requires your presence
To meander willy-nilly as it will,
But you, source of all,
Require nothing.
* * * *
The unknown pervades all.
You are the mystery; the mystery is you.
That which is known is but a bubble of imaginary notion,
A dreamtime play of consciousness, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
True religion is much more than regurgitating some historic dogmatic notion,
That is really no more real and true now than it was in the way-back-when.
* * * *
Duality is a fabrication of consciousness.
In reality, there can be only oneness:
All-pervading, all-knowing, ever-present.
The all-in-one-one-in-all quantum awareness.
Chapter Sixteen
The hologram born of imagination is discerned complete
When the awareness you believe a separate you
Fully realizes that its true, ultimate nature
Is the infinite, eternal oneness.
* * * *
Futility is beating your head on the wall,
Believing you can change anything
Without changing into your Self.
* * * *
You have pretended it all matters long enough.
Feel free to take a long vacation,
An eternal holiday,
From this theater of the absurd.
* * * *
What need or concern would the clayness ever have
For light or sound, form or being, thought or memory?
* * * *
The passions draw you out into this imaginary world.
Without their hot and cold, you are nothing more
Than the infinite stillness of pure awareness.
* * * *
What a mystery this holographic matrix,
A mirage of space and time,
An imaginary sandbox,
In which all play,
But none truly exist.
Soundbites Added to “The Return to Wonder”
Chapter One
You are nothing but a dream of the absolute to fathom its eternal fathomlessness.
Chapter Two
Peace is a quality of consciousness, not some unattainable, divisible ideal.
* * * *
To see, to know, to own, that you are the absolute, manifest, is beyond all imagining.
Leftovers and Soundbites
Transferred to “The Return to Wonder”
from “Breadcrumbs 2019” and All Future Times Beyond
Chapter 250
A quantum dream no matter how many dimensions.
* * * *
Existence is the imagined time between indifferent sleep.
* * * *
Speculation is the root of all inanity.
* * * *
No matter what you believe, it is all speculation.
Chapter 251
Gaia is a dream world of eternity.
* * * *
You are but a brief mortal dream of the immortality of eternity.
* * * *
Nobody knows nothing but what they imagine so.
Chapter 252
Time is the living death of consciousness.
* * * *
The mind will consume whatever notion draws its eye.
* * * *
Nothing that can be imagined is what it is and is not.
* * * *
Now is the timeless dreamtime of all yesterdays and tomorrows.
* * * *
Even wisdom is only as deep as illusion allows.
* * * *
Mindless belief – tedious, senseless, stupid – is the lazy way.
Chapter 253
The eggshell of conditioning is but an imaginary shell.
* * * *
Are you insane, or jsut not playing the game?
* * * *
Imagination is all, all is imagination.
* * * *
Imagination is a quantum magic carpet ride through awareness.
* * * *
How can the cosmos the eyes perceive and mind conceives ever be real?
* * * *
Only the delusion inspired by DNA would find a newborn adorable.
Chapter 254
All is but imaginary notion.
* * * *
A sensory play fostered by imagination.
* * * *
We are but dreams in each other’s minds.
* * * *
Nothing exists but the dreamtime of imaginary notion.
* * * *
The world, the universe, that imagination built.
* * * *
What is will but consciousness balled up with intention.
* * * *
Attend, perceive, discern, embrace, synergize, gestalt,
The birth and death, the creation and destruction, of every moment,
As often as the body-mind in the given circumstance allows.
Chapter 255
An imaginary creation, a tale of universal proportion.
* * * *
What is any history but the fog of perception.
* * * *
The corporeal body is but a means to a dream,
A temporal reverie of the three-dimensional kind.
Chapter 256
All boundaries are born of imagination.
* * * *
The joy of imagination is that you do not have to go there.
* * * *
It all is nothing more than a dream of mind.
Chapter 257
It is only vanity that believes anything important.
* * * *
How long can forever be if time is an illusion?
* * * *
Only imagination imagines itself alive.
Chapter 259
Fill your Self with the absoluteness that transcends the imaginary persona.
* * * *
Wake up in whatever way you will, it does not matter, it is but a dream.
* * * *
Intuition is imagination’s rabbit hole.
* * * *
You create your own yoke – heavy or light or nonexistent –
It is up to you and the level of attachment to your dreamtime.
Chapter 260
The seed of tomorrow is in today, and yesterday but an imaginary tale.
* * * *
The body lives, the body dies, and imagination imagines between.
* * * *
What are sight and sound and taste and smell and feeling,
But vibration interpreted by the mind steeped in illusion.
Chapter 261
You are the ever-emanating now, radiating an imaginary universe.
* * * *
Yet another suit dreaming of conquest.
* * * *
So much effort imagining, believing, pretending, you care.
* * * *
Real faith requires no word or act, no belief or creed.
* * * *
The infringement of imagination is an infraction upon your eternal nature.
* * * *
The first breath, the last breath, and naught but a dream between.
Chapter 262
Yet another zombie wandering its delusional mindscape.
* * * *
Name that delusion.
Chapter 263
For all eternity, for all time, two very different states of consciousness.
* * * *
Hope is dead. Long live hope.
Chapter 264
Yet another mind-made thing pretending it is more.
* * * *
Consciousness measures, awareness streams.
* * * *
Consciousness ebbs and flows; awareness streams.
* * * *
Ethereal awareness, ephemeral consciousness.
Chapter 265
Are you this earthly, temporal, finite, mortal body?
Are you that of which this body is made?
Or are you that which is prior to all form and context,
Prior to consciousness and its innumerable channels of speculation.
Prior even to that inexplicable awareness by which all dreams of time are perceived.
Chapter 266
The immortality of youth is a many-splendored illusion-delusion.
* * * *
All fates are but mirages born of imagination.
Chapter 267
The dream is not more real now than the day you exited the womb.
* * * *
The mind’s capacity for self-aggrandizement, imaginary as it is, is a ceaseless wonder.
Chapter 268
Whatever hope there was, washed away in the pain.
* * * *
Hope for the best; plan for the worst.
* * * *
The movement that is; the stillness that is not.
* * * *
The imaginary Me-Myself-and-I awakens again.
Chapter 269
It is a dream, and then it is not.
* * * *
There they go again, mucking about in all their imaginary differences.
* * * *
All emotional notions are nothing more than human poppycock.
* * * *
Absurdity will out.
Chapter 270
Your dream is whether it is all about yesterday or today or tomorrow.
* * * *
The universe is but an imaginary sheen in your imaginary mind.
* * * *
All differences are but vain notions fabricated in the mind’s eye.
Chapter 271
Consciousness is the inherent flaw that all must endure.
* * * *
How much does imagination require to see it is but an illusion?
* * * *
How can you imagine any speculation but less true?
Chapter 272
Memory is an erstwhile taskmaster.
* * * *
Without memory, did anything ever really happen?
* * * *
Another day a-streamin’ in the dreamin’.
* * * *
The fog of consciousness masks the eternal awareness, and time plays on.
* * * *
Imagination is the time machine.
* * * *
All history is nothing more than the pretense of imagination.
Chapter 273
The frontal lobe is the theater of human consciousness.
* * * *
What’s your delusion?
* * * *
Questions of a thousand dreams.
* * * *
It is not what you want to be; it is what you want to pretend.
* * * *
Perception, perception, perception.
* * * *
Creativity is its own reward.
Chapter 274
Imagination is always running away with itself.
* * * *
Outside your memory, does anyone or anything really exist?
* * * *
What notion can a dream long harbor?
* * * *
All else is imagination.
* * * *
To believe totally in nothing is the realm of the no-mind.
* * * *
The pittering-pattering of every mind,
Every moment further muddies up the world,
Inexorably caught up in the destiny of consciousness.
* * * *
That most primal thing, fear, has been key in molding this imaginary you,
A conditioned identity that you every day wake up believing real and true.
A state of mind, a state of attachment, a sword by which you live and die.
Chapter 275
The illusions of the flesh are of but relatively short duration.
Chapter 276
Absurdity from dawn to dusk, and all the dark hours before and after.
* * * *
How long can virtue withstand the winds of fierce and bitter consciousness?
* * * *
Consciousness does not easily relinquish its imaginary universe.
* * * *
Only the dead have seen the end of absurdity.
Chapter 277
What is death but a dream forever extinguished.
* * * *
Consciousness an insatiable beast that will not easily die.
* * * *
No projection of imagination, no matter how lucid, how fearless, has ever been real.
* * * *
or delusion, you decide.
* * * *
Beware any individual or group that has a big idea looking for true believers.
* * * *
What is any given cosmos but a sensory body, a brain, and a mind imagining it so.
Leftovers and Soundbites Transferred
to “The Return to Wonder” from “Breadcrumbs 2018”
Chapter 278
Imagination is the creator of all.
* * * *
Imagination is all.
* * * *
To remain still and clear, even in the most turbulent winds,
The most absurd, intolerable, rancorous moments,
Is indeed one of life’s greater challenges.
Even the most enlightened, most awakened gurus,
Surely roll their eyes and grind their teeth every now and then.
Chapter 279
Cause and effect, ebb and flow, there and back, future and past,
How could the dreamtime continue on and on and on without them?
* * * *
The least common denominator
Is the pure awareness you truly are,
That source that abides all dreams as one.
* * * *
Do not believe all the stories you hear.
* * * *
Speculation is not knowing.
* * * *
What is death but return to the oblivion you have only pretended to know.
* * * *
Betray or incite true believers at your own peril.
* * * *
Consciousness is slathered in soot of the quantum kind.
Chapter 280
What is any life but the flashes of perception we call memory.
* * * *
What is the world, the universe, but a quantum dream ever consuming itself.
* * * *
The entire human paradigm is a collusion of delusion.
* * * *
Cause and effect, ebb and flow, there and back, future and past,
How could the dreamtime continue on and on and on without them?
Chapter 281
What a clingy thing, consciousness.
* * * *
Naught but a dream that never really happened.
* * * *
The entire human paradigm is founded upon imaginary confabulation.
Chapter 282
For consciousness to be content requires great discernment.
* * * *
As differences are to indivisibility, illusion is to reality.
* * * *
Consciousness is but a subset of awareness.
* * * *
The whole of consciousness is but a quantum-neural storm playing time.
* * * *
The dreamer is the dream; the dream is the dreamer.
* * * *
It is delusion that hurts, not truth.
Chapter 283
Past and future are but vanity projected upon any imaginary timeline.
* * * *
Yet another universe created by imagination.
* * * *
Another day of pretend underway.
* * * *
Imagination is a time machine that can travel anywhere but the present.
* * * *
Consciousness is an ever-changing show of imagination.
* * * *
Dream on, Dreamer.
* * * *
There is only one mystery in this dreamtime; one mystery with many faces.
* * * *
To die every moment while conscious is an meditation worth exploring.
* * * *
What is this mind that is conditioned to perpetually justify its illusion?
* * * *
Illusion is all.
* * * *
Big Bang or Big Speculation?
* * * *
Show me a boundary, and I will show you it is but an imaginary figment in your mind.
Soundbites Transferred to “The Return to Wonder”
from “Breadcrumbs” (Chapters 301, 302, 303)
Chapter 283
Consciousness is playing itself out through you.
* * * *
You have as much access to the sun as any who have ever dreamt in time.
* * * *
It is a mind in ever-present movement that creates the other.
* * * *
Identity is merely a cloak of illusion.
* * * *
Théâtre absurde.
Chapter 284
What sense of both freedom and imprisonment imagination can be.
* * * *
The perceiver is in all, and all are in it.
Chapter 285
Even the merest shadow of the movement of time can darken the mind.
* * * *
What an absurd beast, pride.
* * * *
Why pretend to own anything?
* * * *
A cosmic conspiracy is no doubt afoot for the many that harbor such pointless notions.
* * * *
Real faith, real belief, is the relinquishment of everything in any given moment.
* * * *
Every set of eyes a witness to a dream of awareness playing out consciousness.
Chapter 286
What are time and space but a function of memory cells.
* * * *
Reality is in the still immediacy prior to consciousness.
* * * *
Total madness, or the sanest thing you will ever imagine?
Chapter 287
You are not of the conscious design, merely witness to its play.
* * * *
Open eyes are so easily enticed into the endless delusions of illusion.
* * * *
You know all … in your dream.
Chapter 288
What can any dream possibly offer to the real you?
Chapter 289
What do you remember but the remnants of a touchy-feely three-dimensional dream?
* * * *
Prior to romantic notions of love and beauty, nothing.
Chapter 290
Any hell is of its own making, of its own design.
A set of narrowing, limiting choices,
Born of an imaginary field.
* * * *
The last real freedom you had was the moment
Before the seeds of consciousness took root.
* * * *
The limitations of the mind and body,
Real as they seem at the time,
Are entirely imagined.
* * * *
The manifest world is but a temporal quantum dream,
Which all inhabit and play out as their nature demands.
* * * *
No matter how much you believe you know,
It is merely bits and pieces of a dream unknown.
* * * *
Merge into the awareness of consciousness,
And what duality can there possibly be?
Chapter 291
The dream will out, and the we who are me will witness it all.
* * * *
The greater the anger, the greater the illusion.
* * * *
A daydream of sorts, and nothing to show for it.
* * * *
Merge into the awareness of consciousness, and what duality can there possibly be?
Chapter 292
What consciousness hath set apart, let consciousness render whole again.
* * * *
Why bother holding on to all the memories of what has only ever been a dream?
Chapter 293
Everything else is self-serving absurdity.
Chapter 296
You are awareness caught up in a sensory dream.
* * * *
To what would any delusional mind have to compare it?
* * * *
Choose your absurdity.
* * * *
Just another entry in this stream of consciousness.
* * * *
It is not your dream, or my dream, it is the dream.
Chapter 298
Believe nothing.
* * * *
What a jealous, angry, petty, inane god, so many, with such diligence, imagine.
Chapter 299
Do not call it anything, just be alone in the awareness prior to consciousness.
Chapter 300
In the dreams of those immersed in totality, it does not matter what any other thinks.
* * * *
Except in the dreams of imagination, there has never been an individual soul.
* * * *
What you fear most, what you desire most, is what you have in imagination created.
* * * *
Are you this pretending That, or That pretending this?
Titles, Titles & More Titles
The Fog of Consciousness
* * * *
The Hedonist’s Guide to Higher Consciousness
* * * *
The Depths of Consciousness
* * * *
The Cloud of Consciousness
* * * *
The Conscious Eye
* * * *
The Delusion Games
* * * *
The Hope Games
* * * *
Scar Tissue of Imagination
* * * *
Of Ethical Dilemmas and Other Absurdities
* * * *
The Absurdity Chronicles
* * * *
Notions Unlimited
* * * *
The Absurdity of Time
* * * *
The Shield of Imagination
* * * *
On Believing in Nothing
* * * *
The Dream of Time
* * * *
Too Absurd to Care About Ever Again
* * * *
The Parameters of Consciousness
* * * *
The Ironic Notion
* * * *
The Notion of Time
* * * *
The Faithful Cynic
* * * *
Absurdum Infinitum
* * * *
The Great Absurdity
* * * *
The Absurdity Gene
* * * *
The Vanity of Imagination
* * * *
Absurdity is the Wordity
* * * *
The Esoteric Absurdity
* * * *
The Tree Rings of Imagination
* * * *
Dream Weaver
* * * *
The Nuances of Consciousness
* * * *
The Imagination Paradox
* * * *
The Irony of Imagination
* * * *
Grand Delusion
* * * *
The Amber of Imagination
* * * *
The End of Speculation
* * * *
* * * *
Of Human Absurdity
* * * *
The Dusty Dream
* * * *
The Dusty Dreamer
* * * *
The Lie of Hope
* * * *
The Believer
* * * *
One Wacked Out Dream
* * * *
The Lie That Imagination Built
* * * *
Illusions
* * * *
Delusions
* * * *
The Delusions of Illusion
* * * *
The Illusions of Delusion
* * * *
The Miasma of Human Consciousness
* * * *
The Maelstrom of Human Consciousness
* * * *
Paradigms of Consciousness
* * * *
The Flurry of Imagination
* * * *
The Absurdity! The Absurdity!
* * * *
Quantum Dream, Quantum Dreamer
* * * *
The Dreamer
* * * *
The Identity That Imagination Built
* * * *
The Ever-Changing Dream
* * * *
Man Dreaming
* * * *
The Dubious Notion
* * * *
The Grand Illusion
* * * *
A Bag of Delusion
* * * *
Born of Imagination
* * * *
Memory’s Haze
* * * *
The Pretender
* * * *
Time, An Imaginary Construct
* * * *
Breathe In The Dream, Breathe Out The Dream
* * * *
Nothing Pretending Something
* * * *
The Moi-Infested Dream
* * * *
The Make-Believe Games
* * * *
The Makebeliever
* * * *
Imagination’s Illusory Wake
* * * *
The Pale of Absurdity
* * * *
Beyond the Pale of Absurdity
* * * *
The Conscious Breath
* * * *
The Conscious Witness
* * * *
The Futility of Hope
* * * *
The Matrix of Consciousness
* * * *
The Limits of Perception
* * * *
The Doors of Perception
* * * *
The Age of Absurdity
* * * *
The Absurdity Trials
* * * *
Living the Dream
* * * *
Tales of Absurdity
* * * *
The Minions of Absurdity
* * * *
The Nonbelievers
* * * *
The Dream Weavers
* * * *
The Prison of Imagination
* * * *
Embrace Absurdity
* * * *
The Litany of Delusion
* * * *
Dream Thoughts
* * * *
The Sands of Imagination
* * * *
The Sands of Consciousness
* * * *
The Believers
* * * *
The Disbelievers
* * * *
The Bounds of Consciousness
* * * *
The Eyes of a True Believer
* * * *
The Kaleidoscoping Dream
* * * *
The Dream I Am
* * * *
Speculations Abound
* * * *
The Beingness Prior to Belief.
* * * *
The Theater of Consciousness
* * * *
The Big Bang of Consciousness
* * * *
Stardust Dreamer
* * * *
Dreams of Stardust
* * * *
An Imaginary Life
* * * *
The Trials of Imagination
* * * *
The Sphere of Consciousness
* * * *
A Shard of Imagination
* * * *
Dreamtime
* * * *
The Tao of Infinitum Absurdum
* * * *
The Lunacies of Imagination
* * * *
Creation of Imagination
* * * *
Consciousness is Smoke; Awareness, Fire
* * * *
The Idyll of Imagination
* * * *
The Nightmare of Imagination
* * * *
Imagination’s Payload
* * * *
The Sublime Notion
* * * *
Self Consciousness
* * * *
The Absurdity Games
* * * *
Quantum Dreamer
* * * *
The Pathetic, the Deplorable, and the Absurd
* * * *
The Notion
* * * *
A Dream of Time
* * * *
The Spectrum of Consciousness
* * * *
Absurdity is All
* * * *
Memory Guarantees Nothing
* * * *
Questions of a Thousand Dreams
* * * *
The Living Death of Consciousness
* * * *
The Delusion of Faith
* * * *
The Delusion of Hope
* * * *
The Delusion of Belief
* * * *
Time: The Figment of Imagination
* * * *
The Mind That Would Not Die to Its Imaginary Tale
* * * *
Waking Up from the Dream
* * * *
All in a Dream
* * * *
The Illusion Games
* * * *
Perception is All
* * * *
Reflections of Ten Thousand Dreams
* * * *
Dream World
* * * *
The Collusion of Imagination
* * * *
The Collusion of Consciousness
* * * *
The Absurdity of Love
* * * *
The Absurdity of Hate
* * * *
What Dreams May Come
* * * *
The Unending Speculation
* * * *
The Streamtime Dreamtime
* * * *
How Meaningless All Speculation
* * * *
The Lesson of Hope
* * * *
Imagination’s Flurry
* * * *
The Harbinger of Hope
* * * *
Imagine That
* * * *
True Believer 101
* * * *
Witness to the Dream
* * * *
The Imaginary Moi
* * * *
A Window of Perception
* * * *
The Winds of Imagination
* * * *
The Winds of Consciousness