Leftovers
You are eternity, You are the eternal, You are the now of awareness,
Peering out through stardust, into stardust; peering out through quantum, into quantum.
You are ever a mystery, to which there is no answer, no theorem, no philosophy, no religion, no anything.
Your challenge is to simply be it; unburdened by all the complexities, all the vagaries,
That the imaginary mind ceaselessly manifests into veil after veil,
Masking the stillness, You this moment are.
* * * *
You are alone, You have always been alone.
You were born alone, You live alone, You will die alone.
There has never been even one single moment when You were not alone,
When You were not pure awareness, when You were not the unborn-undying moment.
It is a wondrous state, given over at times to countless worldly distractions, but ever alone, nonetheless.
How the many others that come or go, that think of You, is utterly inconsequential.
And how You discern them, is but as clouds drifting across a sky.
There is no meaning, no purpose, no raison d'être,
But what the imagination imagines,
In its myriad imaginings.
It is but a reverie.
You, alone, are.
* * * *
These reflections are an offering, a gift, of the eternal life within all creation.
Am I the delusional one, for spouting these many musings? Or you, for not discerning it?
Or perhaps both, for ever having participated in this fantastical, utterly improbable dreamtime, at all.
* * * *
All human stages, all human endeavors, all human theatrics, no matter the time, no matter the place,
Be they scientific, mathematical, architectural, martial, philosophical, religious, mystical,
Commercial, engineering, manufacturing, craftsmanship, competitive, domestic,
Cultural, artistic, musical, dance, or literature in all its abundant arrays,
Have as their origin, the ever-enticing filament of imagination.
The entire human paradigm is its unrelenting handiwork.
The only freedom, for those rare few who seek it,
Is a mind given over to absolute awareness,
A mind given over to the tranquility of no-mind,
A mind given over to the equanimity of an eternal life.
* * * *
Who can more than speculate what is actually going on in the grand starry-starry mishmash of all genesis?
Except maybe that fabled supreme-deity Santa Claus, crisscrossing the cosmos in his enchanted sleigh;
Who must, surely, be bone-weary, from the on and on, of the never-ending labyrinth of imagination.
All over something, that may well have been, nothing more than a now much-regretted impulse.
* * * *
Perhaps the mystery created this dream of space and time,
That the rare few might fathom its mystery, its wonder, its truth.
And those who are not called to inquire, live their lives as fate dictates.
* * * *
It is your dream; do with it what you will.
Do with it what time and circumstance allow.
Do with it what the quantum matrix ordains.
* * * *
Though human beings are complex genomic sequences, patterns, that imply free will,
They are patterns, nonetheless, each playing out their daily Sisyphean routine,
All perform their temporal existence as predictably as any algorithm,
Wandering through each moment as the nature-nurture ordains.
All live out their brief dreamtime as was set in motion,
The instant the mystery burst into the space-time continuum.
The You, You truly are, is witness to your splinter of that creation.
* * * *
Any history is entirely reliant on storytellers who tell, and listeners who listen.
No history is ever completely accurate, and many, if not most, are never even close.
The campfires of imagination weave their way into every conceivable reckoning,
And it is left to the solitary few, to realize not even one, has ever been real.
* * * *
Reflections such as these cannot but remain marginalized by the masses,
Because imagination will not allow itself, cannot allow itself,
To be purged, or even brought to heel, from the annals of this garden world,
But through complete annihilation, to which end, it every moment drives closer to probability.
* * * *
For extra-terrestrials to reach our doorstep, however they might make their way across the vast expanses,
Would require that the ineffable mystery, somehow craft like evolutions on other garden worlds.
The number-crunchers fill their time with every sort of calculation of such possibilities,
But the actuality of such, has thus far never come to pass in any scientifically observable way.
Meanwhile, storytellers in this garden, are cauldrons, fueling imaginations’s every imaginable whimsy.
* * * *
There is just this timeless moment.
Sometimes it is ecstasy, sometimes it is agony.
Sometimes it is true, sometimes it is false.
Sometimes it is full, sometimes it is empty.
Sometimes it is happy, sometimes it is sad.
Sometimes it is known, sometimes it is unknown.
Sometimes it is life, sometimes it is death.
Sometimes it is pleasant, sometimes it is noxious.
Sometimes it is fast, sometimes it is slow.
Sometimes it is clear, sometimes it is foggy.
Sometimes it is tangible, sometimes it is intangible.
Sometimes it is rich, sometimes it is poor.
Sometimes it is on, sometimes it is off.
Sometimes it is white, sometimes it is black.
Sometimes it is large, sometimes it is small.
Sometimes it is real, sometimes it is imaginary.
Sometimes it is smart, sometimes it is stupid.
Sometimes it is straight, sometimes it is crooked.
Sometimes it is punctual, sometimes it is late.
Sometimes it is busy, sometimes it is slow.
Sometimes it is reassuring, sometimes it is scary.
Sometimes it is serene, sometimes it is bustling.
Sometimes it is beautiful, sometimes it is ugly.
Sometimes it is sharp, sometimes it is blunt.
Sometimes it is day, sometimes it is night.
Sometimes it is bright, sometimes it is gloomy.
Sometimes it is loving, sometimes it is hateful.
Sometimes it is simple, sometimes it is complex.
Sometimes it is icy, sometimes it is tepid.
Sometimes it is friendly, sometimes it is hostile.
Sometimes it is young, sometimes it is old.
Sometimes it is energetic, sometimes it is lethargic.
Sometimes it is colors, sometimes it is gray.
Sometimes it is right, sometimes it is wrong.
Sometimes it is interesting, sometimes it is boring.
Sometimes it is close, sometimes it is distant.
Sometimes it is right, sometimes it is left.
Sometimes it is same, sometimes it is different.
Sometimes it is exact, sometimes it is approximate.
Sometimes it is similar, sometimes it is different.
Sometimes it is in, sometimes it is out.
Sometimes it is sweet, sometimes it is sour.
Sometimes it is early, sometimes it is late.
Sometimes it is soft, sometimes it is rough.
Sometimes it is tasty, sometimes it is bland.
Sometimes it is fragrant, sometimes it is smelly.
Sometimes it is yin, sometimes it is yang.
Sometimes it is inhale, sometimes it is exhale.
Sometimes it is smooth, sometimes it is rough.
Sometimes it is wavy, sometimes it is flat.
Sometimes it is round, sometimes it is square.
Sometimes it is up, sometimes it is down.
Sometimes it is excellent, sometimes it is mediocre.
Sometimes it is rich, sometimes it is poor.
Sometimes it is silent, sometimes it is noisy.
Sometimes it is expensive, sometimes it is cheap.
Sometimes it is male, sometimes it is female.
Sometimes it is happy, sometimes it is depressed.
Sometimes it is good, sometimes it is bad.
Sometimes it is reasonable, sometimes it is absurd.
Sometimes it is near, sometimes it is far.
Sometimes it is sane, sometimes it is insane.
Sometimes it is light, sometimes it is dark.
Sometimes it is hot, sometimes it is cold.
Sometimes it is dry, sometimes it is wet.
Sometimes it is here, sometimes it is there.
Sometimes it is now, sometimes it is then.
Sometimes it is this, sometimes it is that.
Sometimes it is born, sometimes it is dying.
Sometimes it is unborn, sometimes it is undying.
Sometimes it is beginning, sometimes it is ending.
Sometimes it is everything, sometimes it is nothing.
But it is always the same timeless moment.
* * * *
One cannot help but feel sorry for women who work so hard to become men,
And never quite figure out, that they can never do, never be,
What men so easily, so naturally, do and are.
It is the genomic sequencing that underpins the entire human paradigm.
We all have the same software, the same programming, hundreds of thousands of years in the making.
To deny that, is to succumb to a dystopian nightmare, that no one was designed to play well.
Unless they are a psychopath, a sociopath, or just naturally endure whatever comes.
And no, we are not talking about the airy-fairy men who imagine whatever.
It is ever a Darwinian dreamtime, and natural selection will sort it.
* * * *
You are the electromagnetic spectrum, the quantum matrix,
Come to life, come to consciousness, come to imagination.
* * * *
True science does no harm.
We would not understand as much,
We would not have all the luxuries and toys,
But at least we might still be wandering in the garden.
Assuming, of course, we ceased breeding so much, so absurdly.
But is it possible for any cancer to stop before it kills its host and benefactor?
In the race for survival, who do you think is going win?
Hint: The garden always wins.
* * * *
Existence in a nutshell:
In any life, no matter how simple, no matter how complex, there are an endless stream of decisions,
That lead to consequences that require new decisions, and on and on, choice after choice.
Every variety of agony, every variety of ecstasy, until finally, departure.
And what continues on, but the unborn-undying awareness;
Never even once, the time. imagination imagines.
Now is, has ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
The word is not the thing.
The note is not the melody.
The number is not the actuality.
The imagination is not the awareness.
The moment is not the perception.
The thought is not the now.
Truth is not a concept.
You are not you.
* * * *
Stories are easy to hear or read, and to remember and share.
They teach lessons about given cultures, and offer insights into human nature.
They may leave listeners, perhaps happier, perhaps more hopeful, perhaps more united, perhaps wiser.
No matter the time, no matter the geography, they are the foundation of the human paradigm.
Used rightly, they can create great futures; wrongly, they serve to disparage and destroy.
* * * *
You are the unfathomable, playing fathomable.
You are the immutable, playing mercurial.
You are the indivisible, playing divisible.
You are the infinite, playing limited.
You are the timeless, playing time.
You are the ineffable, playing effable.
You are the infinitesimal, playing huge.
You are the changeless, playing changing.
You are the neverborn, playing existence.
You are the indelible, playing delible.
You are the flexible, playing inflexible.
You are the interminable, playing finite.
You are the everlasting, playing transient.
You are the perpetual, playing temporary.
You are the unknown, playing known.
You are the unutterable, playing utterable.
You are the absurdity, playing logic.
You are the unborn, playing life.
You are the undying, playing death.
You are the constant, playing irregular.
You are the impenetrable, playing penetrable.
You are the intangible, playing tangible.
You are the intrinsic, playing acquired.
You are the unending, playing destined.
You are the unceasing, playing sporadic.
You are the irrational, playing rational.
You are the indivisible, playing divisible.
You are the inexpressible, playing expressible.
You are the enduring, playing short-lived.
You are the ageless, playing age.
You are the abyss, playing shallow.
You are the indefinable, playing definable.
You are the immortal, playing mortal.
You are the eternal, playing transience.
You are the unspeakable, playing speakable.
You are the unchangeable, playing changeable.
You are the You, playing you.
* * * *
The real Jesus, assuming he really existed, died some 2000 spins around the sun ago.
Who knows how many millions, even billions, of imaginary ones, have existed since?
* * * *
The endless pretenses of vanity,
Do not make you more, do not make you greater, do not make you anything,
Other than in your wee little imaginary mind.
* * * *
Peel away all that clothing, all that hair, all that greasepaint, all that polish, all that jewelry.
Slice away the five sensory organs: the eyes, the ears, the tongue, the nose, the flesh.
And you will be just another blob; just another crunchy-chewy-gooey creature.
No different than any other life form this spinning globe has ever spun.
All the egocentric pretenses that humankind harbors, are but absurd theater.
* * * *
We are reaping what we have in ignorance sewn, and dragging our magical garden down with us.
The wave is about to collapse into a chaotic tumult, beyond all control, beyond all hope.
Where we are, where you are, in that decline, in that fall, is at best, speculation.
And what to do, where to be, to survive, is unknowable ground for all.
* * * *
Awareness permeates all things, all illusions.
Any given universe is but a manifestation of quantum design,
In which the awareness, the infinite vastness of eternity, is witness to all, in all.
* * * *
How seriously to take this dreamtime, how seriously to take your Self, is every moment a choice.
Whether to be an involved participant, or a joyful buddha, is all doable, in the illusion’s quantum buffet.
* * * *
Imagining you are anything but the very right-here, very right-now awareness,
Is the Black Snake of ego, slithering through the mind, you imagine your own.
* * * *
Imagine the billions of journeys around our little star, it took for you to be here reading this.
And let us not even try to speculate, how this mystery even reached this moment.
Just breathe in, breathe out, the mystery, You, this very instant, are,
And allow the destined chips fall, where they will, in the great so it goes.
* * * *
What is it but another metaphor –
Idiom, simile, allegory, expression, symbol, image –
That no other culture, no future time, will ever even begin to comprehend.
All languages are but the dynamic – ever-changing, quickly-changing – gyrations of imagination.
It is impossible that any translation will exactly mirror any writer’s intent.
* * * *
We have all played our touchy-feely-nature-nurture parts well; Best Actor Awards to all.
Everybody, applaud the infinite awareness peering out into their illusory universe.
Celebrate the one and only thespian, equally playing each and every role.
* * * *
Prey are predatory in their own way, and predators, prey, as well.
After all, it is an indelible, indivisible, quantum theater extraordinaire.
And there has never been even one creature that has survived,
For more than an iota of time’s illusory continuum.
By one means or another, all evaporate,
Back into the sea of oblivion.
* * * *
Are seers the delusional ones for spouting all this? Or you, for not seeing it?
Or perhaps all, forever engaging in this fantastical dreamtime absurdity, at all?
* * * *
Whistle, while you daily push that boulder up the hill,
If you can find the right song, the right tune, the right chord,
The right harmony, the right tone, the right melody,
To make all the absurdity worthwhile.
* * * *
Sickness, injury, dying, are just other altered states of consciousness.
Less enjoyable than the voluntary subscriptions, but no less momentary.
* * * *
Becoming a conscious observer –
Witness, spectator, onlooker, bystander, eyewitness, watcher –
Makes for a road-less-travelled dream.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how is this mysterious awareness?
Where is this ephemeral nowness, this timeless right-here-right-now?
Is it in the frontal lobe? Is it in the top of the head? Is it in the entire brain?
How can any ever hope to capture it with any eloquent conclusion?
All any can do is be still enough, to discern it is all they are.
* * * *
Is your dream motivated or indifferent? Driven or lackadaisical? Energetic or apathetic?
All fates find the same grave; will yours strike a note in history?
Or be resigned to an unmarked grave?
* * * *
To imbibe the clear elixir of eternal life, timeless life, momentary life, disengage the mind from time;
From all the memories of existence – even from the recollection of a moment ago –
As often as the ever-present attention can wrestle itself free,
From the insistent grip of imagination,
The creator of all that is time-bound and illusory.
* * * *
Challenging, if not all but impossible, to be entirely free of imagination,
For it is the engine of illusion, to which all humans are genetically inclined.
* * * *
Imagination, and all its memories, knowledge, history, metaphors … and drama,
Has a tendency to crash the party without notice, as often as inattention allows.
* * * *
Forms project an illusionary duality, that the indivisible quantum matrix in no way confirms.
Yet, even in realizing all this, you must still daily wander through the dreamscape.
Only in death, figuratively or literally, can the sensory mind-body,
Give itself over to the essence of the ever-present.
* * * *
It is an arduous flight to allow vanity wings.
There is no knowing what hardships will sally forth.
Far more serene to impart to others no unwarranted reflection,
For imagination is but an illusory player in this dream of space and time.
Wandering through life alone, relatively anonymous, has its trials and tribulations,
But the long-and-winding road less traveled, pathless less traveled,
Does not, in any way, necessitate a dream-bound audience.
You are as inwardly free as you allow your Self to be.
* * * *
Separated only in imagination’s Shakespearian touchy-feely-space-time theater,
The crunchy-chewy-gooey vehicle will sooner or later fall victim to the Reaper’s scythe.
But You, the awareness, You, the moment, You, the immediate, You, the ever-present right-here-now;
You will ever remain, unborn-undying, indivisible, ineffaceable, interminable, timelessly infinite.
Some call it existential, nihilistic, but it is the reality in which all dreams come to fruition.
What You believe does not at all matter; mystery is what You are, it is what all are.
Dreamtime is a quantum matrix, in which the mystery, through imagination,
Equally plays all forms, all parts, in all the theaters across the abyss.
* * * *
The elephant in the room, standing right there, how can you not see it?
Neither wall nor spear nor snake nor tree nor fan nor rope, nor any other metaphor;
It stands alone for all to see, what there is to see, what there is to unsee,
Within and without all manifestation prior to imagination.
* * * *
Every life form has its rise and fall.
Every tribe has its rise and fall.
Every culture has its rise and fall.
Every nation has its rise and fall.
Every boulder has its rise and fall.
Every mountain has its rise and fall.
Every world has its rise and fall.
Every star has its rise and fall.
Every galaxy has its rise and fall.
Every universe has its rise and fall.
The mystery is all, the mystery permeates all.
The awareness, every moment, indelible witness of all.
There is no other; only the quantum matrix, and its eternity of appearances,
Kaleidoscoping a most excellent dream of space and time, that only the rarest minds discern unto Self.
* * * *
The less you cling to any given moment,
The less the dream will distract you from your eternal due;
The absoluteness you truly are, and are not.
* * * *
Ignore that imaginary world.
Become the awareness you are,
As often as attention allows.
* * * *
There is only the imaginary appearance of separate souls.
Awareness is the indivisible timelessness permeating all.
* * * *
Where is your face? What does it really look like?
What about the back of your noggin? Or either side view?
What about your back? Or the back of your neck? Or your shoulders?
Or your derrière, without a mirror? What do others see, when you are walking away?
Discerning the matrix vista, that state of awareness, prior to consciousness –
Detached, relativistic, indivisible, timeless, spaceless, boundless –
Is ample proof, if You are fated to achieve such a feat,
That you are indeed the mystery, unto Self.
* * * *
It is but an illusory, secular dream, to which only the chosen few –
Those inexorably drawn to the indivisible abyss –
Will truly, fully, ever awaken.
* * * *
Everything has been brought to you by imagination,
Keeper of the key to the time-bound illusion-delusion.
* * * *
You are the ephemeral sentience.
You are the ephemeral awareness.
You are the ephemeral intelligence.
You are the ephemeral astuteness.
You are the ephemeral compassion.
You are the ephemeral twinkling.
You are the ephemeral sensitivity.
You are the ephemeral right now.
You are the ephemeral awakeness.
You are the ephemeral here now.
You are the ephemeral alertness.
You are the ephemeral absurdity.
You are the ephemeral madness.
You are the ephemeral discrimination.
You are the ephemeral keenness.
You are the ephemeral shrewdness.
You are the ephemeral foolishness.
You are the ephemeral intuition.
You are the ephemeral moment.
You are the ephemeral judiciousness.
You are the ephemeral sagacity.
You are the ephemeral fluidity.
You are the ephemeral wisdom.
You are the ephemeral acumen.
You are the ephemeral flexibility.
You are the ephemeral instant.
You are the ephemeral insight.
You are the ephemeral now.
You are the ephemeral acuity.
You are the ephemeral jiffy.
You are the ephemeral sagacity.
You are the ephemeral wisdom.
You are the ephemeral acumen.
You are the ephemeral shrewdness.
You are the ephemeral judiciousness.
You are the ephemeral sensitivity.
You are the ephemeral here.
You are the ephemeral perception.
You are the ephemeral discernment.
You are the ephemeral discernment.
You are the ephemeral present.
You are the ephemeral passion.
You are the ephemeral dexterity.
You are the ephemeral sentience.
You are the ephemeral perceptiveness.
If You are thinking it, You are not being it.
* * * *
How can space-time have any ultimate reality,
When it is founded upon the gravities, the chemistries, the temperatures,
The interactions, the dances, the vagaries, of suns and planets and moons, and all the dust about them.
Clocks, watches, calendars, are but temporal gauges of the relativity of illusion.
* * * *
Solving problems, creating solutions, is the keystone of the human paradigm.
Every other organism adapts to its world as nature-nurture prescribes in its allotted niche.
Humankind: the toolmakers, the craftsmen, the artists, the scholars, the kings, the servants, the slaves,
Fashion their manifest worlds, as imagination, through genetic lottery, dictates,
And quantum, through every illusionary device, allows,
* * * *
There truly is no point to existence, but the omnipresent moment,
In which the timeless awareness, perceives a sensory universe,
So touchy-freely-three-dimensional real, that minds are easily bent,
Into, with nary a doubt, playing whatever part, nature-nurture has deigned.
Only rare lifeforces are called to doubt the kaleidoscoping dream unfolding about them;
Such that their courses are reset, and the true game afoot.
A matrix thing, to be sure.
* * * *
No creation,
No sensory-born playground,
No amount of imagination in any possible dimension,
As touchy-feely-whatever real, as it may seem,
Can ever be more than a passing dream.
* * * *
Once that little, imaginary, conditioned, inner voice, gets its tongue, it is ever a challenge to shut it up.
There is no end, but death, to the ways and means, imagination can ecstasy-and-agony its imaginary self.
And awareness, ever-present, ever-still, ever witnessing, the nature-nurture mind-body illusion-delusion.
* * * *
If you are seeking god, look to the awareness within.
Awareness is awareness, no matter the state of consciousness.
Awareness plays whatever part it is allotted with the same equanimity.
Awareness has no attachment to any form, to any function.
Awareness boils down to a tranquil mind.
Kind of a matrix thing.
* * * *
If you are anything less than the rationality of pure awareness,
Then your imaginary cosmos has you in its clutches, yet again.
* * * *
Others have always capitalized on vanity’s never wanting to exit center stage.
Or at least, to not be forgotten, overlooked, misplaced.
Forever, if such a time is possible.
* * * *
Blame lead apes for the state of the world, if you like,
The path of chaos and destruction the human paradigm has taken,
Really falls upon the shoulders of the toolmakers, the architects, the builders,
Whose minds only rarely pause to reflect upon the wayward course,
They have inflicted upon the natural world’s web of life.
The spin of greed and vanity have but one fate.
* * * *
Language is the mechanism that imagination uses in ways and means beyond counting,
To bind the awareness in every contortion that frames of reference manage to contrive.
* * * *
Loss, regret, guilt, sorrow, grief, distress, defeat, concern, despair,
Agony, doubt, disbelief, qualms, dread, misfortune, mistrust, misery, fear,
Are among the endless ways and means the suffering of consciousness manifests.
A rolodex of tormenting memories, of recollections, that imagination ever regurgitates,
When there are a dearth of real and pressing problems for the problem-solver mind to solve.
Conscious breathing holds the mind aloof from unnecessary drama and intrigue.
Living, as if you never born, as if you will never die, is s rare feat.
* * * *
The one-percenters have, since the jungles of long ago, set the tone and tempo,
To which all the puppets below dance, however might-makes-right dictates and allows.
Any well-rewarded, ranking position, is determined by whatever they and the many minions value,
Which statistically boils down to avarice and power and vanity; to a pile of gold,
And whatever entitlements are at hand in the given time and place.
It is patterns, not history, that play out ever again.
* * * *
You are not a super hero nor a super sleuth nor a super spy nor a super anything.
You are not even a crunchy-chewy-gooey globule bound by the airs of vanity and greed.
You are the awareness – untainted, unburdened, unswayed – by the idolatries of consciousness.
Do not succumb to the illusion-delusion, that the imaginary mind-body every moment imagines anew.
* * * *
Unless you are called by vanity and greed, to make a crowd-pleasing show of yourself,
It is relatively easy, unproblematic, to remain somewhat anonymous in this dream.
To live it out, as simply and profoundly, as walking the razor’s edge allows.
* * * *
Feeling sorry for your imaginary little self –
For the mind, for the body, for the other, for the world, for the cosmos,
For all the pain and suffering that biology and imagination have inflicted upon you again and again,
For the illusion-delusion dream of time, you hold so dear, feel so important –
Try not to go there.
* * * *
You must still the mind – rid it of the vagaries of imagination – to engage the moment absolutely.
You must be the awareness you truly are, to not be hypnotized by the whimsies of illusion’s delusions.
* * * *
Do not believe your own narrative; that is for the dream.
You are playing the part that all the vanities will remember, until they do not.
All dreamtime histories are replete, unto their entireties, with forgotten everything, sooner or later.
Imagination is but a flickering candle in the quantum wind.
Its reality is highly suspect.
* * * *
All any can do, to live out the dream presented,
Is to play the persona, however nature-nurture and imagination allow.
Rest assured, every other will have their version of you,
To cast humility upon your self-flattery.
* * * *
This is the role, character, protagonist, you have, through the wind of nature-nurture,
And its tango with imagination, fashioned, and quantum-impromptu played.
To be the awareness, you indelibly are, is life's greatest challenge.
Sisyphus looks up, sighs, and begins the daily ascent.
Will he whistle while he shoulders the boulder, is the question.
* * * *
It is a mystery, it has always been a mystery, it will always be a mystery.
Why solve it? Why personalize it? Why fear it? Why measure it? Why worship it? Why dogmatize it?
It is but illusion, you are but illusion, why pretend to save what cannot be saved?
* * * *
It is the quantum’s kaleidoscoping that generates the illusory dream of space and time.
It is the quantum movement through awareness, as clouds through a sky,
That simultaneously creates and preserves and destroys.
The challenge is to, in every moment possible,
Resume the absoluteness, the You, that is the unborn-undying mystery.
You are not the illusory dreamtime; You are not the playhouse, in which You wander every part.
* * * *
The road to absurdity is potholed with every variety of idyllic ideal.
The streets are not paved with gold in any real world, before or hence.
* * * *
Do not believe your own narrative, your own projection, your own propaganda, your own myth.
That is for the dream to play out, however it will, through all the perceptions about you.
“Vanity of vanities,” saith the Preacher, “Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.”
* * * *
Imagination, in all its vanity and avarice, will never consent, will never allow, You,
To be the pure, unadulterated awareness; to be as tranquil as a still pond.
As the Sirens did Ulysses, it will ever beckon the inattentive.
Using any hook, any crook, it will draw you back,
To the shoals of its imaginary creation.
Death, figuratively or literally, is the final solution.
* * * *
Why does the spacetime continuum seem to pass so much more quickly as we age?
Perhaps because the gradual loss of innocence, the gradual domestication of mind and body,
Have left us always describing and labeling and explaining and clarifying and justifying and defending
And measuring and counting and gauging and evaluating and ranking and appraising and judging,
And the moment, the awareness, through which imagination streams, is but rarely discerned.
* * * *
You have wandered your world, your cosmos, your illusion, your delusion, so many ways, so many times.
Do you ever pause to observe it anew? Do you ever perceive this one and only timeless moment?
Do you ever see all the colors and shapes and textures and whimsies of light and shadow?
Do you ever taste the flavors, hear the sounds, smell the scents, feel the sensations?
Or are you so ensnared, so confined, by desire and fear and dread, by all your millstones,
That your innocence, your presence, is forever lost to imagination’s plays of irony and paradox.
* * * *
Take moments now and again in all the busy-ness, to reflect on the illusory mystery that it is,
And perhaps give your Self over, at least occasionally, to that evasive quality of mind called detachment. Very challenging for any two-legged, because the dream seems so every moment very real.
And we are all so absorbed, so engaged, so attached, to our given dreamtimes.
There are no masters, only beginners, always beginning anew.
* * * *
Quality breathing is an awareness enabler.
So much bother boils down to oxygen deprivation.
Returning to the ever-present is the challenge, the razor's edge.
Not an easy calling to become a conscious witness to the mystery we all are.
To have taken the ruby-slipper red pill launches a destiny none could ever have anticipated.
The blue pill would perhaps have made it all so much easier, in so many ways.
But alas, there is no going back; alas, there is no rewind button.
All life is born to live out whatever fate the seed calls.
All any can do, is do it as well as possible.
Breathe it in, breathe it out.
Be here now.
You.
* * * *
Why does it matter so, why does it matter at all,
Who-what-where-why-when-how, others witness you?
Why are you, why is our kind, so mesmerized by our vanity?
Is it possible to wander unconditionally in the midst of all the fanfare?
Is it possible to wander in an utterly detached, disinterested, uninvolved, state?
How far would our species have come, could our species have come, were we all alone?
Despite the very apparent, very mysterious, very ineffable, fact, that we are, all, unutterably alone.
This momentary awareness, this now, and its absoluteness, its indivisibility, its solitude,
Is very much the same, within each and every one, throughout all creation.
All the other, is but a quantum illusion, a quantum delusion,
In minds given over to imagination’s whims.
* * * *
The scars, the stresses, in mind and body, are inflicted by all the other.
By the universe that the senses and imagination have created.
By the dream that has bound the awareness you are.
* * * *
You are an electromagnetic, biological phenomenon; a beast, a savage,
Domesticated to serve whatever tradition, natural selection has spawned you.
Is it possible to reverse engineer the conditioned mind-body you imagine you are,
To such a degree, as to become the infant, the innocence, the tabula rasa,
You were before the dreamtime took you by the scruff of the neck?
It is a question that compels focused, undivided attention.
A laser, burning away the dross of imagination,
Until only the awareness remains.
* * * *
The grand strands of deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) that have created you,
Are only concerned that you generate as many offspring as possible, by any means.
Whether or not any given strand carries on, is always subject to natural selection downstream.
Ethics has never been an issue, in the one and only immortal quest, truly in play.
The constructs of imagination, of illusion-delusion, notwithstanding.
* * * *
How can any ever-streaming moment be auspicious or trivial or boring,
Or any other illusionary-delusionary notion, born of the imaginary mind?
* * * *
You are what You this moment are; that sentient awareness, that sentient awakeness.
Nothing before, nor hence, matters, but to imagination, and all its time-bound trickery.
* * * *
Instinct was the baseline before imagination magnified it to heights and breadths beyond reckoning.
To be unaware of how it has shaped human history, is to submit to a power that embraces extinction.
* * * *
Sooner or later, life will take you by the scruff of the neck,
And bash you proper, in whatever way your nature-nurture dream has in store.
And it will not be a once and only time, guaranteed.
Try not to take it personal.
* * * *
From the ultimate standpoint, from the eye of the mystery’s standpoint,
What makes your biological array any greater or lesser than any other’s?
Only vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity separates it little self from the source of all.
* * * *
Space and time are less about being a measurable continuum,
Than they are, an immeasurable, ever-kaleidoscoping quantum medium.
An ineffable creation, enabled by a neurological set, evolved in a biological cauldron,
From which imagination plays out never-ending Shakespearian theater of nature-nurture design.
* * * *
Has there ever been any other species,
Born of this garden world, born of this quantum mystery,
That has imagined, has pretended, with such great effort, to be so many things,
That it is not, that it has never been, that it will never be?
* * * *
Be wary you do not become so absorbed in your imaginary self,
That you assume everybody else should be, too.
Notoriety is a dubious quest,
And groupies cultivate many dramas.
* * * *
In the aging process, the weight of memory can cause a ceaseless tug-of-war,
Between imagination and awareness, between the dreamtime and the moment.
* * * *
Waking up to another day of illusory possibilities,
Another day of illusory compliance,
Another day of illusory philosophical observation,
Another day of roaming about the illusory rabbit hole of imagination,
For which you have whatever illusory enthusiasm, your ethereal spirit naturally summons.
* * * *
Delve as deeply as one might, the mystery ever remains a mystery.
Ultimately, no one really has any choice, but to do whatever needs doing:
Breathe in, breathe out, hunt, gather, eat, pee, poop, breed, ponder, sleep, repeat.
Life need not be as complex as vanity and greed would have us all imagine and believe.
* * * *
Prior to all creation,
Prior to all forms,
Prior to all functions,
Prior all plays of consciousness,
You are.
* * * *
Stories, narratives, chronicles, sagas, memoirs, accounts, tales, fairytales, legends, myths,
Are the primary ways and means that imagination perpetually, unabashedly utilizes,
To commandeer the purity of awareness, ever still in its immaculate moment.
* * * *
So, what is it you think you are looking for? What is it you think you might find, will find?
Unless you are no longer a seeker, unless you have already figured out the irony-paradox absurdity,
Any answer, any guess, any speculation, means you already have some sort of assumption,
And that means you may not be as serious as you would have yourself believe.
* * * *
No matter how much you learn, no matter how much you study, discover, analyze, realize;
No matter how known, how affluent, how powerful, how influential, you might become;
You are very much quantum-equal from the elemental, indivisible, matrix perspective.
All the vanity, all the pride, to which humanity inclines, is as empty as empty ever is.
* * * *
Imagine having never smelled a smell.
Imagine having never tasted a flavor.
Imagine having never seen an image.
Imagine having never heard a sound.
Imagine having never felt a sensation.
Imagine any combination of the above.
What would your frame of reference be?
What would your world, your universe, be?
* * * *
Every mind has a story, every group mind, a chronicle.
Some myths even campfire their way down the mirage of dreamtime,
Until they, too, are forever forgotten, forever adrift, in the moment they were given.
Dreamtime is like that: loyal to all, loyal to none.
Go away, Kid, ya bother me.
* * * *
The awareness that You are, is right-here-right-now.
In what other quantum dimension, in what other imaginary dream,
Would it be any different? Could it be any different? Should it be any different?
* * * *
The body’s chemical responses to the world and all its many threats, real and imagined,
Will drag the mind-body back into the emotional depths anytime it is allowed.
Detachment is not easy, even for the most indomitable philosopher.
* * * *
The senses are always drawing you out to play,
In this imaginary world, in this dream of space and time.
To disregard them is the big challenge, for all who would linger,
In the ever-present awareness, this one and only moment,
That all really are, have ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
The sights! The sights!
The sounds! The sounds!
The smells! The smells!
The tastes! The tastes!
The textures! The textures!
The thoughts! The thoughts!
The vanity! The vanity!
The hunger! The hunger!
The algorithm! The alsorithm!
The division! The division!
The creativity! The creativity!
The greed! The greed!
The hypocrisy! The hypocrisy!
The sorrow! The sorrow!
The discordance! The discordance!
The subtlety! The subtlety!
The laziness! The laziness!
The love! The love!
The paradox! The paradox!
The wealth! The wealth!
The poverty! The poverty!
The loneliness! The loneliness!
The disparity! The disparity!
The dullness! The dullness!
The violence! The violence!
The obesity! The obesity!
The pain! The pain!
The disharmony! The disharmony!
The genetics! The genetics!
The novelty! The novelty!
The ambition! The ambition!
The stress! The stress!
The predictability! The predictability!
The ugliness! The ugliness!
The brilliance! The brilliance!
The dogma! The dogma!
The monotony! The monotony!
The matrix! The matrix!
The bullshit! The bullshit!
The wisdom! The wisdom!
The stupidity! The stupidity!
The boredom! The boredom!
The hate! The hate!
The tradition! The tradition!
The suffering! The suffering!
The bother! The bother!
The corruption! The corruption!
The loyalty! The loyalty!
The worry! The worry!
The rigidity! The rigidity!
The cacophony! The cacophony!
The deceit! The deceit!
The pleasure! The pleasure!
The viciousness! The viciousness!
The irony! The irony!
The repetition! The repetition!
The conflict! The conflict!
The beauty! The beauty!
The harmony! The harmony!
The insanity! The insanity!
The tribalism! The tribalism!
The cruelty! The cruelty!
The industry! The industry!
The emptiness! The emptiness!
The drama! The drama!
The inanity! The inanity!
The absurdity! The absurdity!
The horror! The horror!
* * * *
Without the mind-body,
What is wet, what is dry?
What is hot, what is cold?
What is loud, what is quiet?
What is sweet, what is bitter?
What is pleasure, what is pain?
What is coarse, what is smooth?
What is harsh, what is gentle?
What is any now-soon-then?
Without illusion its game?
* * * *
We are blobs; we are all the progeny of blobs.
Our primordial antecedents were merely gooey, slimy.
But natural selection, lots of time, and no lack, no end, of horror,
Made us crunchy and chewy, as well; definitely, something to be vain about,
And ceaselessly, without qualm, make as much ado about nothing, as imagination allows.
* * * *
Deal with your post-traumatic stress as a sensation, a vibration,
Rather than all the thoughts and feelings, that imagination ever ignites upon.
The challenge is to, at least every now and again, detach from the mind-body dreamtime.
Still the mind, be the awareness, be the moment, free of all the agonies and ecstasies, existence exacts.
It may or may not be easy, to discern and be, this most simple beingness;
Attachment is a magnet, that holds all in its orbit.
But it never hurts to practice.
* * * *
How to dissolve the binds of post-traumatic stress,
That permeate any given mind-body like rings in a tree,
Requires a meditative attentiveness, challenging to maintain.
We are all captive in our biological cauldrons, prisoners of destiny,
Coded with whatever history has been written in the sands of imagination.
* * * *
It is, and is not, as you imagine it to be.
The true revolution is freeing the awareness You are,
From the imagination that has imprisoned it.
* * * *
All those voices yammering away in your head, day-in-day-out.
How do you shut them off, how do you become what you truly are,
But by earnestly wrestling the wheel from their imaginary grip.
* * * *
Even if there are dimensions beyond all constraints, beyond all conceivable bounds,
It is still the same ineffable, indivisible mystery, at the core of all.
And all are, surely, no less illusory than this one.
I mean, yawn and double-yawn.
* * * *
Find that space, that clarity, that innocence,
Before all the demons moved in, and usurped the awareness,
And bound it in imagination, the space-time that is but quantum sleight of hand.
* * * *
Just wait, as patiently, as calmly, as possible,
And the best solution will often make itself apparent.
Assuming, of course, a perceptive, rational mind.
* * * *
We are all the same mystery, the same awareness, the same eye,
Swathed in a mortal container, with which we all identify,
And sustain, in whatever way nature-nurture has in dreamtime ordained.
It is part, a fate, a destiny, a dream, an illusion, we must all together, all alone, endure.
* * * *
A dream created by quantum through awareness.
Is the quantum cosmos created by the quantum mind?
Or is the quantum mind fashioned by the quantum cosmos?
Or do they simultaneously metamorphose together?
Only the mystery knows, and it is not telling.
And awareness, serene witness to it all.
* * * *
Do not blame awareness for the maelstrom of imagination.
It is consciousness alone that is the upwelling of all that is absurdity,
In this theater-in-the-round, playing out on an obscure side-stage of nothingness.
Like the sky, awareness is immaculate, unblemished, blameless, for any storms passing through.
If there is anything to be blamed, if there is a fall guy in this tale, it is surely inattention.
* * * *
Odds are that imagination will always be lurking about,
Waiting for any opening to distract You from the eternal moment,
From the timeless awareness You truly are, have ever been, will ever be.
Until those occasional moments, in which full attention kicks in,
And the real You awakens in the moment you ever are.
* * * *
Science has had quite a long slog wandering the helter-skelter of absurdity,
Of ignorance and superstition and tradition, bound together in imaginary minds.
* * * *
Another talking head, doing the circuit, trying to make a buck, promoting yet another book.
How is it anyone even begins to believe this madhouse can be somehow be made sane?
The Titanic, even be one degree turned; the fate of Easter Island somehow averted.
Consciousness is well on its way to the abyss; its brief window, rapidly closing.
* * * *
Stick around in this dreamtime for as long as it works for you,
And then depart as quickly, as quietly, as painlessly, as mind and mood and circumstances allow.
Or stick around and suffer the likely bitter end, only too happy to platy out.
* * * *
It is but an imaginary quantum space-time-dream-time that has enticed you,
Conditioned you, trained you, bound you, into really and truly believing, it real and true.
It is totally on you, to awaken to the true reality, the true You, the awareness beneath all surfaces.
* * * *
Regrets are a sorrow no mind easily dispels.
It is a very challenging thing to forgive oneself,
For all the pain that vanity again and again endures.
* * * *
Focus as closely as you can, on each and every breath.
See how long before imagination cuts in,
And the dance again begins?
* * * *
Why would karma ever be inflicted upon a dream?
Why would a dreamer ever be punished, ever be rewarded,
For dreaming a dream, about which he or she or it, had no choice?
It is avaricious predators who create and use imaginary deities against you.
Depending on circumstances, you may, or may not, be free, to put them behind you.
It is not fun being shunned and/or tortured and/or executed for being a sceptic (a.k.a., heretic).
Might makes right, and histories across the board, have times beyond counting,
Proven far less than egalitarian, towards those who question.
* * * *
Seriously, what does a blob have to be vain about?
And of the quest for power, fame, fortune,
Surely you ha-ha jest, my friend.
* * * *
Plenty of creatures on this planet get along plenty fine without ever seeing a human being,
And plenty of human beings, get along plenty fine without ever seeing you.
We are not as important to the cosmos as we would like to think,
And you, to but a relative few, for but a brief while.
Vanity is nothing more than poof.
* * * *
The human paradigm is founded on five senses and a central processing unit.
Any given world, any given universe, is created by how well each sense works.
How well, how acutely, eyes see, ears hear, nose smells, tongue tastes, flesh feels.
You are playing out the die roll set in motion at the instant of genesis.
When or how or why it all happened, is entirely irrelevant.
Here we are, right here, right now, this very moment,
Incessantly quibbling over absurdities beyond measure.
* * * *
Yup, your distant cousin, the worm, has the same alimentary canal design.
As do an unknowable number of other critters, across all the ages, across all the times.
Anatomy is, indeed, fate … and choice … but a perpetual debate, regarding degrees of absurdity.
* * * *
Atlas tripping on his globe, Sisyphus toiling with his boulder.
See if you can set that vanity down, at least once and a while.
* * * *
To all the true-believers, who spend their existence entangled in any given religion,
Would discovering it was all a lie, all a charade, all make-believe, all entirely meaningless,
Make you wonder what you coulda-shoulda-woulda done with all the time you wasted?
* * * *
It does not in any way matter, how you reached this awareness of awareness.
It does not matter what you thought; it does not matter what you did, or did not do.
You are the only one who judges, the only one who counts, the only one who imagines,
And all your imaginary judgments, all your imaginary accountings,
Are as meaningless, as meaningless can be.
* * * *
Look out into the starry-starry night, and imagine it being administered by any of the imaginary deities,
That humankind has, across all times, across all geographies, through every vanity and cupidity, devised.
* * * *
So, you’re in love with a blob, eh?
What’s your favorite part?
Nerves or arteries?
Brain or body?
Heart or spleen?
Clitoris or ovaries?
Mouth or anus?
Lungs or liver?
Eyes or ears?
Nose or tongue?
Penis or testicles?
Legs or arms?
Knees or elbows?
Flesh or womb?
Big toes or thumbs?
Belly button or buttocks?
Imagine kissing and licking them all.
* * * *
We all are the same mystery, the same inscrutable unknowable, the same quantum magic-fairy-dust.
We are all absolute equals, in all shapes and sizes and functions in this web of life.
We are all the Dreamer dreaming; how can you not be part of it?
* * * *
When it comes to this inscrutable mystery,
Can anything ever be proven, ever be encapsulated by consciousness?
Of course not, that is why this may well be the most ineffable mystery, the mystery has ever concocted.
That is why all conjectures, all speculations, all assumptions, all assertions,
Can never be anything more than idle hearsay.
* * * *
The young are flagrantly innocent, naively simple, blissfully radiant, until they are not.
Until they are touched harshly by this dreamtime, into which they have been involuntarily cast.
Touched harshly by any of the so many ways the human paradigm has through imagination engineered.
And then they join in with the collective, churning mass, and become the adult now reading this.
The adult who vaguely recalls, and longs, for that innocence, that simplicity, that radiance,
And will perhaps rummage deeply enough, freely enough, to resume the tabula rasa.
The You, the Self, that is, and has always been, right-here-right-now present.
* * * *
Ignore the sensory theater; be the awareness you are, the stillness you are, the moment you are.
There is only right here, right now, this very singular, timeless, spaceless moment.
All befores, all afters, are nothing more than imaginary delusions,
Concocted by quantum minds bound to illusion.
* * * *
Yes, even though it is very astute, very exacting, very prolific,
And more spot-on accurate, than imagination has heretofore managed,
Even science, in all its illusion-bound glory, is ultimately just more babble-on.
* * * *
If you cannot read these thoughts, without growing weary,
Or having some sort of fight or flight response,
Then they are likely not for you.
At least not at this point in your dreamtime.
* * * *
You are the indelible awareness, you are the ineffable mystery.
If you do not discern it for your Self, it is entirely on you.
No one else can discover it for you, no one else can do it for you.
No one else can more than point out ironies and paradoxes and absurdities.
But more than a few will be happy to manipulate and appropriate whatever you allow.
* * * *
True believers are always in the hunt for followers
– acolytes, devotees, disciples, adherents, admirers, enthusiasts –
To join their groupthink, and more than likely relinquish a tithing, large or small.
To stand alone, free and clear, of all imaginary notion, is not for all.
* * * *
Death is the mercy of the mystery to its Self, that it not be forever trapped,
In all the illusions, in all the delusions, in all the ironies and paradoxes,
In all the absurdities of awareness, falsely believing itself to be you.
* * * *
All that knowledge, all that trivia, all that irony, all that paradox,
No matter how profound, no matter how trifling,
Is made-up from all get-goes.
Make-believe tends to be like that.
* * * *
Science must eventually fall on its sword,
Because it can only explore the kaleidoscoping quantum illusion.
The mystery, that which pervades all, that which is prior and beyond, is the realm of philosophy.
And even philosophers, must eventually still their loquacious intellects,
If they discern the wit and will to abandon all absurdity,
And melt into the timeless awareness.
* * * *
If you can scrutinize anything, question anything, wander anywhere, that imagination allows,
You are well-equipped, well on the way, to being eye-wide-open witness,
To anything the mystery brings to your stage.
* * * *
It is the ineffable quantum mystery that is born again and again and again, not the mind-body identity.
The imagined you, is but a delusional dream of awareness, of Self, attached to a corporal figurine.
Of Self, deluded by, attached to, imagination, and its ever-kaleidoscoping legion of illusions.
Of Self, deluded by a dream concocted by a mind and five senses, feelers into the quantum matrix,
Playing out the destiny that the quantum mystery set in motion in a space-time that never really existed.
* * * *
Cloaking a blob in the finest mask and costume in the cosmos, does not make it any less a blob.
Is there really anything left to take seriously? Absurdity reigns, why are we not rolling in the aisles?
* * * *
Why would any deity, with any salt at all,
Create a cosmos, merely to judge its participants laudable or not?
If there were to be such a deity, why would any of the participants submit to such absurdity?
Surely, they would cast him into his own purgatory to teach a lesson.
Check the mirror; maybe they already have.
* * * *
Democracy is something of an experiment – a hypothesis, an inquiry, an audition – in history’s playbook.
A means of managing civilization; a modus operandi, in no way natural to the human paradigm.
If representative democracy is to succeed, if power is to attain some degree of balance,
All parties must walk away from any given table at least partially dissatisfied.
Everyone must explore a way to achieve some sort of compromise,
In which all parties can be at least somewhat satisfied.
Any by-the-people-for-the-people-of-the-people governance,
Requires an autonomous perception, to which relatively few are disposed.
Requires a sagacity steeped in resolute determination to ward off the despotic inclination.
* * * *
You finally got the joke.
Why are you not rolling in the aisles?
Embrace the absurdity.
* * * *
The imagination that grips You, is the aspect that desires and fears and dreads.
The awareness, the moment, the real You, was never born, can never die.
What is there to want? What is there to fear? What is there to dread?
What is there to think or do? What is there to create or destroy?
What can any rational sage do, but yield to the absurdity.
* * * *
Embrace each and every breath that attention allows.
It is closer to the moment than you can imagine.
And you never know when it will be your last.
* * * *
Imagination has had a good time,
But it needs to get a reign on itself it is to survive much longer,
In the forever it has contrived.
* * * *
Is a memory of something that happened a few moments ago,
Really any more or less tangible, than one that was perceived decades ago?
They are just random perceptions, from a long and winding line of random perceptions,
Yesterdays that are but vague dreams, vague dreams that only delusion believes, ever really happened.
* * * *
The sense of self is not the body, not the mind, not the life.
Imagination usurps the eternal awareness for its own mortal schemes,
For its time-bound creations, that are, in reality, no more lasting than the moment.
Reincarnation is but an imaginary concept; no thespian returns to center stage again and again.
All are new seeds, new actors, in which the awareness, the mystery, performs yet another one-time show.
All who are born to the stage, are the same awareness, the same consciousness, the same witness.
Call it theater, call it matrix, call it god, call it whatever you will, it is one in all, all in one.
It is quantum stagecraft: unscripted, extemporaneous, serendipitous, happenchance.
* * * *
By the time you recognize anything – a sight, a sound, a smell, a taste, a sensation – it is long gone,
And your frame of reference is interpreting the perceptions recorded along the mind’s neuron trails.
What we call existence is really nothing more than a constant rehash of yesterday’s song and dance.
* * * *
My awareness is your awareness, your awareness is my awareness,
Is his awareness, is her awareness, is our awareness, is their awareness, is its awareness.
It is the same awareness in all living beings across any and all dimensions.
And through awareness, imagination gambols in every mind.
Ultimately, we are all just talking to our Self.
* * * *
Liberation requires earnest attention.
Imagination is always lurking in the wings, ready to pounce,
With its long and winding baggage train brimming with every conceivable bewilderment.
* * * *
Second hands, minute hands, hour hands,
Go round and round and round, portraying analogue time real.
But where is the ‘moment’ hand, and what can any digital clock ever even pretend?
* * * *
Hard to imagine, despite all statistical assertions to the contrary,
That across the entire universe, there could be a more absurd species.
* * * *
Idealistic notion.
Romantic notion.
Pragmatic notion.
All have their time.
* * * *
Illusion and imagination spin all about this awareness, this ‘youness’ You are.
Endure it, abide it, perform it, stay centered in the unutterable stillness,
The indelible awareness that is without beginning, without end.
* * * *
Who does not have a struggle, a fight, a mein kampf, within and without?
The only question is how each chooses to play it out upon their dreamtime.
* * * *
I observe you, you observe me, each of us peering out.
Only in reflections do we discern our masks and costumes,
Because we are both the same awareness, the same faceless Self,
Eternally gazing out upon all other imaginary parts.
And they, eternally gazing back at you.
You are the indelible mystery, and it is you.
* * * *
On the other side of that wall of flesh you so long to caress,
Is a gurgling, churning goulash, of crunchy and chewy and gooey.
Genetic hypnosis denies you the horror of seeing what is really going on.
What if instead, you were doing all the same imaginings to some other creature?
What if it was all merely about the machinations of biology and chemistry and physics,
Experiencing every variation that the wind of imagination can possibly imagine.
What difference, really, between fondling her sweet spot, or a sheep’s?
* * * *
There is no need to care one way or another, about anything or anyone.
The conditioning, the indoctrination, the domestication, is a powerful dynamic,
But you can be free of it, if you choose to abide in the awareness prior to imagination.
It is not easy, but an attentive, well-sharpened blade of discrimination, can cut through the veil.
Despite all claims to the contrary, there is no divinity requiring you to suffer all the mindless absurdities.
This is naught but an illusionary-delusionary dream, so be as free, be as mindful, as you are able.
* * * *
Is there really, truly, anything that you have ever witnessed,
That cannot be explained through lucid, rational, scientific thinking?
A serious question, that does not align, in any way, with the underlying reality,
That this whole dreamtime mystery theater, is as irrational and absurd and astounding,
And ineffable, beyond any speculation, that any illusionary-delusionary mind, has ever babbled.
* * * *
Some things cannot be won, some things cannot be endured.
Always be at the ready, to let go, to cut your losses, to retreat as far as necessary.
In the oft-times harsher-than-harsh reality of this dreamtime madhouse,
Nothing should-could-would, ever be taken off the table.
* * * *
You have to be at least a little off the mark, at least a little demented,
To spend so much of your existence seeking this, for all it ends up mattering.
Just imagine how many things you could be doing in this magical mystery madhouse.
Got it all right here, folks, something for everyone, got it all right here.
Step right up, folks! Step right up! This ain’t Kansas, Toto.
Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
* * * *
You only need to please your ineffable Self, really.
Whether or not others esteem your character to be of interest,
Really only matters to the insatiable vagaries of vanity.
* * * *
The end to curiosity about the world, the cosmos, in which you ply your imagination, is required,
If you wish to timelessly linger in the serene pool of awareness, absolute, without peer.
For the temptations to return again and again, ever again, are beyond many.
It takes some serious resolve, to do without the daily cappuccino.
* * * *
Try not to get too upset that true-believers will never give up their child-ish things.
Do not hold your breath that the human species is going to ‘wake up’ just because you want it to.
Besides which, what exactly are you believing-hoping-praying, our kind might become?
And what would it really take to get to that magical-mystery place in the sun?
* * * *
Why would you really believe you are more exceptional than anyone or anything else?
Try imagining them, try playing their role, their world, their universe,
And try it with any other living creature, as well.
How can you not be humbled by this incredible mystery You are.
* * * *
If it is true, it will be true, for all dreams, all times, all geographies.
That is the guarantee this indelible quantum mystery ever guarantees.
* * * *
Your mind-body is quite a bit more intricate,
Quite a bit more attached to the dreamtiming of consciousness,
Than when life first took root, however, a few billion spins around the sun ago.
A little more crunchy, a little more chewy, but no less gooey, to all the creatures that would consume it.
Essentially the same goopy-slushy organism, though much more self-absorbed in the packaging.
Even the strongest, the smartest, the most beautiful, are but collections of protoplasm,
Ever deluded they are greater than they are, ever have been, will ever be.
* * * *
The expanding cosmos of human knowledge is the first and foremost zero-sum game.
What will happen to it all, when the human species eventually goes who-knows-when-how extinct?
Is there some vast, eternal vault, wherein can be found a manilla folder, with a single page,
On which are, in faded print, typed beginning and end dates for a planet called Gaia?
So much for the vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity show being even noteworthy.
Maybe go ask all the Petri dish universes what they were about,
To voilà-realize that all existence anywhere, anytime,
Is really nothing more than a fleeting stain.
* * * *
What mathkabob came up with that that set of zeros?
Is there no limit, no end, to the theoretical contortions,
That so many busy-busy minds are eagerly willing to go?
Seriously, how many zeros, left or right of the decimal point,
Have any real meaning, any real application, in any real world?
How many more inventions, how many more gadgets,
Must we keep creating to fill our absurd lives?
* * * *
It takes earnest, vigilant attention, to interrupt, to suspend consciousness.
To give your Self back to the moment, back to the timeless awareness.
To cease the background chatter always at the ready to drone away.
* * * *
A harsh existence creates a tension that innocence never knows.
Observe deeply within, to the source of consciousness itself,
To discern the blameless innocence that is your true nature.
* * * *
Egocentric
Ethnocentric
Phallocentric
Androcentric
Anthropocentric
Chronocentric
Heliocentric
Theocentric
Geocentric
Solarcentric
Cosmoscentric
All orbiting the me, the myself, and the I.
A flesh-wrapped blob believing itself to be whatever its imagination imagines.
* * * *
Forget your imaginary self,
Forget your imaginary world,
Forget your imaginary universe,
Forget everything you think you know.
Become the ineffable, indelible, unknowable, unfathomable, intangible, indivisible, lasting, unutterable,
Irrational, unborn, undying, inexpressible, overwhelming, indefinable, expansive, immortal,
Unspeakable, deep, beyond words, ineradicable, permanent, enduring, intrinsic,
Engrained, deep-rooted, deep-seated, impenetrable, timeless, eternal,
Awareness,
You truly are.
* * * *
Zeros to the right, zeros to the left,
How far from any given decimal point,
Does measuring illusion ever really matter?
* * * *
How can you even begin to believe this momentary awareness is anything but the mystery itself?
Equally permeating all dreams, all worlds, all universes, across all times, across all spaces.
There is nothing that is not connected, except in imaginary notion, imaginary delusion.
* * * *
Are you really any more than a flesh-packaged-wrapped-sheathed-incased-bundled blob?
Are the human body’s five sensory accessories– eyes, ears, nose, tongue, nerve-ridden skin –
Anything more than Mr. Potato Head mechanisms wired into an organic central processing unit?
Are all the things that make the human paradigm what it is – opposable thumbs, larynx,
Two arms, two legs, lung capacity, group dynamics, sexuality, et cetera –
Anything more than the happenstance of natural selection?
The mystery is the master of all possibilities.
Nature is its ever-changing, ever-evolving expression.
The device You inhabit, is but current issue in a timeless dance,
Eternally kaleidoscoping, for as long as the enigma of imagination endures.
* * * *
All that fear, all that dread, all that sorrow, all that anger, all that tension, all that pain, all that suffering,
Is the post-traumatic stress, that, like tree rings, mark all the forces that have driven you to this moment.
All the agonies and ecstasies that have shaped your seed into the Shakespearian role you imagine you are.
Just because you play it, just because you see that mask in the reflection, does not mean have to believe it.
* * * *
If you want to believe the mind-body more than an imaginary blob,
Who is anyone to argue with the absurdities of delusion?
We will all be feeding daisies soon enough.
* * * *
If existence has meaning and purpose,
Then surely at the top of the list, is to wake up,
To the awareness prior to consciousness, that you truly are.
The distractions are many; narcissism and hedonism are in their sway.
Few have the interest or wit to suspend the algorithm of the given nature-nurture.
For most, to even once, doubt all things, to even once, peer behind the veil,
Is so beyond the realm of possibility, that only fools brood over it.
And even if every human being, was somehow to awaken,
You would still be pure, unadulterated awareness,
Peering out upon the mystery, totally alone.
* * * *
Consciousness, coupled with instinct, is insatiable, unless you are so lucky,
As to be temperate, or at least moderate, in your narcissistic-hedonistic mix.
* * * *
It took some serious trials and tribulations, paradoxes and ironies,
To reach this moment, in the illusion-delusion of imagination’s reign.
* * * *
Existence does not require meaning and purpose; it is the meaning and purpose.
The quest for more-more-more draws all into the insatiable rabbit hole of imagination.
But if pretending, if make-believe, is the lie, the delusion, that keeps you slogging, so be it.
Truth will still be here if any inkling of doubt is ever enough to be drawn back into its awareness.
* * * *
What an absurd squander to spend one’s whole life,
Venerating and petitioning and fearing an imaginary idol.
So many strolls in nature, the one and only true church, missed.
* * * *
What a thing to witness such a cataclysmic unfolding in the history of this garden orb.
With or without life on board, it will spin along until, eventually,
The mystery sees fit to consume it entirely,
And then, presumably, speculatively, spit out something new,
Assuming, of course, that some form of imaginary perception is there to witness it.
* * * *
What is there to fear, to dread, really, in this sensory-mind dream born of space-time imagination?
What other creature has so definitively invented such havoc as humankind,
With its inclination for every imaginable storyline.
All played out in an imaginary world,
To which awareness, is every moment, its own witness.
* * * *
Religion is really nothing more than a narcissistic-hedonistic genus of Self-masturbation.
If you are going to venerate anything, venerate whatever is left of nature.
She is the Eden that made all this, this dreamtime, possible.
How difficult would it have been for our species,
To have fostered, to have embraced, a guardianship role,
Rather than twisting and destroying it to a degree yet to be finalized.
* * * *
You see only see what you perceive.
You see only see what you know.
You see only see what you believe.
Everyone is but a frame of reference.
Patterns born of the mystery prior to all.
* * * *
What north and south and east and west,
Would there possibly be, but for the dancing of the stars?
But for the angle and spin of the orb, around and around the hearth of the sun.
How you are here to witness whatever dream you have been cast,
Is the theater of mind, the playhouse of imagination,
In which wise and foolish alike dwell.
* * * *
If you are pride-filled, if you are vain, perform it well.
If you are not pride-filled, relish the humility.
Be grateful for the obscurity if affords.
* * * *
When you were a child, you spoke as a child,
You understood as a child, you thought as a child.
But when you became a man, you put away childish things.
And swathed yourself in religion and other adult imaginings, instead.
* * * *
Imagination cannot more than hope to hide from awareness,
But awareness can evade imagination, as inattention allows.
* * * *
What choice has anyone ever had in anything, really?
Nature-nurture, the genetic lottery, coupled with the given backdrop –
History, culture, politics, religion, language, wealth, status, gender, and whatever else –
Fashion all, as surely, as deftly, as a mold does any lump of quantum terra-cotta.
Human consciousness may vainly, in so many ways, deem itself superior,
To the churning instinctual algorithms of all its fellow earthlings,
But primordial instinct is the underlying operating system,
That has been running this state of so-called existence,
Since long before the first hint, the first tethers, of imagination.
Destiny is, each and every timeless moment, choreographing your arrival.
* * * *
Science’s Big Bang Theory is about as meaningful for the layperson,
As any creation mythology is, from any tradition, from any time, from any geography.
All those who claim to know what this unfathomable mystery is about, are all only pretenders pretending.
The mystery is a mystery is a mystery is a mystery, and will forever remain a mystery,
In any and all forever-mores, that will ever be, forever more-ing.
* * * *
Once you discern all life forms as nothing more than blobs,
With seemingly every imaginable feature, every imaginable attribute,
It is a bit easier to weave and wind through any given moment a tad more detached.
* * * *
It is all illusion, it is all imaginary, and every variety of delusion carries many a mind to far distant shores.
All the measurements, all the observations, all the calculations, all the designs,
Are ultimately really nothing more than trivial pursuit.
All minds churn and churn,
And some minds crave more than sports and soap operas.
Ergo, science, mathematics, engineering, architecture, economics, philosophy, ad infinitum.
* * * *
How could your sentience, your awareness,
Possibly be, in any way different, in any way disconnected,
From any other life form’s sentience, from any other life form’s awareness?
The mystery is all-inclusive: omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent.
Duality is nothing more than an imaginary concept,
Stillborn, preserved in mind only.
* * * *
Every moment awaits the arrival of your presence, your awareness, in the space-time construct.
The quantum matrix to which your imaginary, temporal existence, is habitually bound.
Free will looking forward, every moment, morphs into fate looking back.
* * * *
The dream, the illusion, only seems real in the moment.
Does the universe exist, without you as witness?
Did it create you, that you could create it,
In whatever way imagination might?
And death, in due course, erasing everything.
* * * *
Why has humankind created so many deities,
So many paradises, so many purgatories, of every variety and ilk?
Because the ever-churning imagination, required meaning and purpose, rhyme and reason,
To explain the inexplicable, to battle the futility, to lessen the fear of oblivion,
That followed them like shadows, in the jungles of long ago.
* * * *
You really believe you have free will?
Could you be free of your time?
Could you be free of your space?
Could you be free of your genetics?
Could you be free of your body?
Could you be free of your face?
Could you be free of your eyes?
Could you be free of your ears?
Could you be free of your nose?
Could you be free of your tongue?
Could you be free of your touch?
Could you be free of your language?
Could you be free of your ethnicity?
Could you be free of your gender?
Could you be free of your status?
Could you be free of your knowledge?
Could you be free of your memories?
Could you be free of your beliefs?
Could you be free of your wealth?
Could you be free of your religion?
Could you be free of your politics?
Could you be free of your feelings?
Could you be free of your emotions?
Could you be free of your prejudices?
Could you be free of your reflections?
Could you be free of your insights?
Could you be free of your appetites?
Could you be free of your family?
Could you be free of your friends?
Could you be free of your acquaintances?
Could you be free of your adversaries?
Could you be free of your heritage?
Could you be free of your tribe?
Could you be free of your work?
Could you be free of your habits?
Could you be free of your foods?
Could you be free of your liquids?
Could you be free of your pleasures?
Could you be free of your pains?
Could you be free of your sexuality?
Could you be free of your things?
Could you be free of your hobbies?
Could you be free of your loves?
Could you be free of your likes?
Could you be free of your hates?
Could you be free of your reactions?
Could you be free of your banter?
Could you be free of your algorithm?
Could you be free of your world?
Could you be free of your cosmos?
Could you be free of your moment?
Could you be free of anything at all?
The human paradigm is as fixed as any.
It may seem a complex, superior pattern,
In which consciousness reigns over instinct,
But you are as caught in it, as any jellyfish is its.
Even your most unpredictable actions are predictable.
Free will looking forward, fate looking back.
Your destiny awaits your arrival.
Die to it now, if you can.
* * * *
We are all our own blend of narcissism and hedonism, our own blend of arrogance and humility.
There is no right way, there is no wrong way, there is ultimately only your way.
And as illusionary-delusionary as it may seem to be to others,
It is what it is, and there is no changing it.
You are stuck in a body with its version of You.
* * * *
Is it really some ‘me’, some ‘myself’, some ‘I’, who is reading this?
Or is this sense of ‘you’ really nothing more than programmed imagination?
Imagination shrouding the awareness timelessly witnessing this sensory-mind dream.
The awareness timelessly witnessing dreamtimes in all sentient beings,
In which the indelible, unfathomable mystery, harbors.
* * * *
So many believing their window of history, their slice of geography, their groups of like-minded –
Their family, their tribe, their country, their school, their city, their church, their world – so important.
There is absolutely no reason to hope, even for a moment, that the human species will ever get over itself.
It would require a transformation, a revolution of consciousness, absurd to all but the most astute.
* * * *
The end of curiosity hearkens of the end of imaginary collusions.
Or perhaps at least hearkens to some diminishment, of imaginary collusions.
Or at least hearkens to waking up from the siesta, every once-in-a-while, now-and-again,
To the reality that it is all nothing more than an inexplicable, ineffable, rather absurd, quantum reverie.
* * * *
Oops, you did not look back,
And now it is lost and gone forever,
Drifting into the fading memory section.
* * * *
We are really nothing more than blobs of crunchy and chewy and gooey,
Imagining we are so much more than narcissistic, hedonistic, bags of vanity.
* * * *
Birth: the first illusion.
Life: the middle illusion.
Death: the final illusion.
* * * *
Savor the moment.
Do not be driven by imagination,
Into its dreamy time-bound-space-bound illusion.
Its monotonous, banal, narcissistic-hedonistic theater of the absurd,
That ceaselessly, zealously, rushes on and on and on, to the next to the next to the next.
To hold fast requires earnest diligence.
* * * *
Believe and hope and pray as you might, that there is more, alas, no.
You are a one-time sensory-mind dream, a Shakespearian player,
Wandering a touchy-feely, multi-dimensional, quantum holodeck.
An imaginary matrix of the original nature, flawless from all get-goes.
* * * *
Your spin in the genetic lottery may make you lucky,
But it does not make you special, it does not make you superior,
It does not make you higher or lower, stronger or weaker,
In the eternal eye of the spaceless-timeless moment.
Try to avoid getting all narcissistic about it.
* * * *
Science becomes as meaningless as any superstitious, mythological narrative,
Once you look for your Self, and discern the imaginary context of all perspectives.
* * * *
History is nothing more than imaginary notion,
A pattern, a habit, to which the human paradigm, the human genome,
In some ago, some unheralded moment, succumbed.
* * * *
Why should you ever allow your Self to be yoked in any way?
Why feel the need to submit to any imaginary fiction?
Why give in to any absurdity born of vanity?
Why not just ‘be’ the awareness, you truly are?
* * * *
May as well get it over with,
Unless you feel inclined, for whatever reason,
To a dismal, likely painful endgame, to an illusional-delusional narrative,
That has the same ending as any blade of grass.
* * * *
It is not the fruit of knowledge, but the fruit of imagination,
That was plucked in that mythological garden in the so long ago.
* * * *
Dualistic notion makes absolutely no sense, whatsoever, in the rational truth scales.
For there to be a deity on high – bearded, lolling about the sky – is more than a little preposterous.
It was likely a calculated con on the lessers to get their coin and free labor and daughters,
For whatever greedy, self-serving ends-and-means, steered the powers-that-were.
Call it cynical, call it skeptical, call it pessimistic, but do not call it untrue.
* * * *
This moment is as new, a new, as any new, can ever be.
Vague perceptions, concoctions of mind, machinations of imagination,
Are but shadows cast only for as long as the given dreamer ascertains them real and true.
Death has proven to be the most convenient way to wipe the slate clean.
* * * *
Any given screen is much more interesting than the mundane world, around and about.
What the inventors hath through time wrought, is a furnace of imagination ablaze,
Gradually, steering whole world upon a tack, only imagination could divine.
* * * *
Your entire existence is nothing more than a memory.
Nothing more than imagination, as soon as it happens.
* * * *
To call anything ‘yours’ journeys into the never-never land of absurdity,
Being that you have never really existed as more than an imaginary construct,
That this kaleidoscoping dreamtime is really nothing more than quantum fairy dust.
Death is nothing more than an imaginary cosmos coming to a full and assuredly final, halt.
* * * *
If you think life is monotonous, imagine eternity.
As mundane and lackluster as the mind it is given.
* * * *
If you want to see how beyond-absurd your fellow two-leggeds can be,
Ask them about the rabbit hole they have burrowed to store all their beliefs.
* * * *
Why would you ever even begin to imagine, human beings, really any different than wolves and sheep?
Consciousness only parlays the same predator-prey relationship into much more elaborate permutations.
You are instinctively acting out the one and only lead-character, to which your nature-nurture is ordained.
* * * *
You are not the self.
You are not the mind.
You are not the body,
You are not the world.
You are not the cosmos.
You are the awareness.
You were never born.
You will never die.
Let go all dreams.
Let go all illusions.
Let go all delusions.
Let go all attachments.
Pay attention to the moment.
Be free of space, be free of time.
* * * *
Real friendship does not change.
Real friendship does not judge.
Real friendship does not betray.
Real friendship does not detract.
Real friendship does not thieve.
Real friendship does not intimidate.
Real friendship does not envy.
Real friendship does not manipulate.
Real friendship does not deny.
Real friendship does not overwhelm.
Real friendship does not attack.
Real friendship does not cling.
Real friendship does not dissolve.
Real friendship does not differentiate.
Real friendship does not desert.
Real friendship does not ridicule.
Real friendship does not labor.
Real friendship does not diminish.
Real friendship does not dogmatize.
Real friendship does not malign.
Real friendship does not abandon.
Real friendship does not deceive.
Real friendship does not hurt.
Real friendship does not destroy.
Real friendship does not turn away.
Real friendship does not end.
Is there such a thing as a real friend?
Or is it just a lot of yada-yada, comparable to fallacious notions of family and flag?
* * * *
To all true believers: Duality makes no sense, whatsoever.
Why would any deity not want to experience everything for itself?
The awareness you are, is the mystery itself, witnessing its own creation,
Through the given nature-nurture, spawned long before your parents copulated.
This is a preordained dream; there is no partition, there is no wall, there is no division.
There is only one mystery, there is only one unknown, there is only one truth, and it is … You.
This is surely what Jesus meant, when rumored to have declared, “I am the Truth, the Life, and the Way.”
What was not recorded, what was not transcribed, or worse yet, edited out, was, “And so are You.”
This all assumes, of course, that Jesus of Bethlehem was not some storyteller’s tall tale,
Conceived after spending a few hours with a naive young woman named Mary,
Whose husband, Joseph, had pimped her out to pay for their stable,
Where their baby, Jesus, was serenely asleep in a manger.
That the storyteller, a prankster named Paul,
Realized a ‘divine’ opportunity,
And spun it into a rather lucrative livelihood,
Which, alas, ended badly when it touched the flame of Rome.
Paul’s carny act, however, did survive, and has played every imaginable circus ever since.
* * * *
In the annals of the vast unknowable,
The entire human paradigm and all its imaginary theatrics,
Could be summed to being nothing more than a relentless torrent of mental masturbation.
The interminable make-believe of a species assuming its sensory illusion tangible.
Laughably absurd, steeped in the inanity and insanity of irony and paradox.
Unequivocal meaninglessness from any and all imaginary get-goes.
* * * *
Abiding in pure awareness, without the screen of memory, without the sense of self,
Every moment is the first and last time the conditioned mind,
Will ever read the sensory input that way.
Continuity is illusion coupled with delusion.
* * * *
Challenging to remember to be awake all the time.
Delusion is a loud clarion in every human sojourn.
* * * *
What would Buddha have written,
Had he had access to the dream world of these times?
And would he really gain more notoriety than a footnote, this late in the game?
* * * *
Being a friend to the manifest world and its myriad life forms,
Is a challenge to which vanity and greed are not easily diverted.
* * * *
Your little window of time,
Opens into the next, into the next, into the next,
Into every next there can possibly be.
If the dream were real, that is.
* * * *
Yes, you will likely forget that, too, no worries.
And if there is a memory, it will never be more than some vague perception.
Certainly not what it was, the one and only live run.
* * * *
If you are an eye-catching woman, a shapely blob, with hypnotic eyes, a svelte voice,
And a willingness to do whatever anything implies, and there are men eager to pay high dollar,
The money, is that you would be, in fantasy, or in fact, spreading your sweet thighs to the highest bidder.
The only rather semantic difference, is whether you call it prostitution or marriage.
Friend, let us be honest: male or female, we are all whores.
Narcissism and hedonism, in all their glory,
Are what make the human paradigm tick, tick, tick.
* * * *
Masks of make-up and hair and nails, and costumes of cloth decked with jewelry,
Are winners in the vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity to which Ecclesiastes was referring.
* * * *
Discern closely, without any attachment to the mind-body and its theater,
And you will see clearly, that your world, your cosmos, is nothing more than sensation,
Sculpted by imagination into the way it is, for You, all by your alonesome.
* * * *
The busy-busy mind, the curious mind, the time-bound mind, the illusory mind,
Can be easily drawn, easily enticed, down every variety of rabbit hole.
To reside in the eternal awareness requires great detachment
From the temporal world and all its distractions.
* * * *
If you had never seen your face in a mirror,
Or photograph or any other reflection,
Who-what-where-when-why-how,
Would you imagine your Self to be?
* * * *
Who really cares what you believe?
Who really cares what you feel?
Who really cares what you are?
Really only You, and You, alone.
And that, but for the dreamtime allotted.
* * * *
How is it that this world, this cosmos, is not already beyond-all-pales magical,
Without so many glossing it over with every variety of superstition and fantasy?
How is it that a scientific approach has not entirely abolished all fallacious claims,
With a vision so much more expansive, than any parts can but begin to imagine?
* * * *
This moment is all there is, and there ain’t no more.
No who, no what, no where, no when, no why, no how.
Nothing to know, nothing to be, nothing to be curious about.
That there is nothing to conceive, is so amazingly slam-dunk obvious.
In fact, it is impossible to conceive, to imagine, anything, within any given moment.
Even if the momentary, unborn-undying awareness, could, somehow, stop long enough to consider it;
Could somehow, make the quantum space-time matrix, stop its kaleidoscoping merry-go-round;
Could somehow hold absolutely still, for even one single poof of an eternal moment;
It would all boil down to: this moment is all there is, and there ain’t no more.
* * * *
All are witness to the same mystery,
Witness to the same indivisible theater of quantum origin,
But how each patterning, each algorithm, plays out its nature-nurture dreamtime,
Is its own incomparable adventure, its own incomparable fate,
From imagination’s beginning, to its end.
* * * *
Imagination, creator of all that is nothing more than quantum illusion.
Imagination, creator of all that has never been anything more than quantum illusion.
Imagination, creator of all that will never be anything more than quantum illusion.
Imagination, only as material as the sensory-born illusion of the given moment.
* * * *
How much of your imaginary space-time is spent on every variety of distraction?
Mindless drivel, fallacious conclusions, magical assumptions, romantic yearnings.
How much of your imaginary space-time is spent avoiding the stillness within?
* * * *
Playing in this touchy-feely sandbox does not mean You are not entirely alone all the while.
That all others are but apparitions, dancing about all around you,
In a magical holodeck of quantum design.
Perfectly choreographed by the sensory mind,
In all its biological-chemical-electrical-quantum glory.
It may be delusional, but it is a madness that makes it tolerable.
* * * *
What conflict could there have ever been in sentient beings for more than food and turf,
Until imagination usurped the awareness, rose into Planet of the Apes glory,
And grafted self-absorption, identity, into the instinctual algorithm.
And thus, a long and winding, ever-present expedition, to You, reading this,
Somewhere along the path that your nature-nurture is, to its imaginary fate, wandering.
* * * *
Dwelling in the awareness requires a very clear, a very present, attentiveness.
Far easier to drift in the busy-ness of the imaginary realms,
To which most minds are inclined.
* * * *
It all just happened; what did You see?
It all just happened; what did You hear?
It all just happened; what do You taste?
It all just happened; what do You smell?
It all just happened; what do You feel?
It all just happened; what do You know?
* * * *
In the craft, the art, the cunning, of politicians, of rhetoricians, of manipulators, of Machiavellians.
That all humans, through natural selection of the species, possess to some degree,
The important thing, the pragmatic thing, the sensible thing,
Is not whether you heard or understood them,
But that they believe you did.
Keeping the peace keeps it peaceful.
Respect oils the ceaseless machinations of power.
Disregarding the balance is a sure road to mayhem and suffering,
All based upon patterns that our kind evolved since inception in the primordial stew.
Long before space, long before time, long before imagination usurped the genome for its imaginary ends.
* * * *
Diverse as all the speculations – in all times, in all geographies – of how all this creation came to be,
The dice of the original patterning were thrown long before there were any stories to weave,
And have been whirling and twirling their tango down the craps table ever since.
Call it by whatever name has been drilled in, it is ever the mystery of You.
That which is prior to all beginnings, that which is after all ends.
No need to believe anything, but what the palette of nature reveals,
But what your awareness, what you, your Self, alone, clearly discerns.
* * * *
Imagination is the Original Sin.
Until it usurped awareness, good and evil did not exist,
And their reality is a still an unproven doctrine, one left to philosophers who pontificate on ethics,
And the rest, to those who ceaselessly spin their self-absorbed realities,
Into every imaginable form of self-righteousness.
* * * *
Imagination is the Genie let out of Pandora’s Box.
Imagination is the Elephant in the middle of the room.
Imagination is what the Seven Blind Men can never see.
* * * *
Everything you know, everything you trust, everything you consider real and true,
Everything you spent your life accumulating, everything you will likely depart believing,
Is nothing more than whatever your imaginary nature-nurture quantum reverie, has concocted.
* * * *
Challenging not to allow imagination to believe this mystery,
To be more than it is, more than it needs to be, more than it ever can be.
Imagination has an exceedingly long rap sheet, of difficulty leaving well enough alone.
* * * *
Through all times,
Through all spaces,
The same genesis in all,
The same unknown in all,
The same consciousness in all,
The same imagination in all,
The same awareness in all,
The same moment in all,
The same mystery in all,
The same voice in all,
The same You in all.
* * * *
Reality is only as real as you imagine it.
Space is only as real as you imagine it.
Time is only as real as you imagine it.
History is only as real as you imagine it.
Science is only as real as you imagine it.
Mathematics is only as real as you imagine it.
Music is only as real as you imagine it.
Art is only as real as you imagine it.
Philosophy is only as real as you imagine it.
Industry is only as real as you imagine it.
Technology is only as real as you imagine it.
Architecture is only as real as you imagine it.
Existence is only as real as you imagine it.
Stuff is only as real as you imagine it.
Other is only as real as you imagine it.
Nature is only as real as you imagine it.
Gaia is only as real as you imagine it.
Genesis is only as real as you imagine it.
Dreamtime is only as real as you imagine it.
Everything is only as real as you imagine it.
God is only as real as you imagine it.
Awareness is only as real as you imagine it.
Self is only as real as you imagine it.
You are only as real as you imagine it.
* * * *
What is left, after you stop imagining you are the body?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are the identity?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are all these memories?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are all these relationships?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are anything at all?
What is left, but the still, pure awareness, you ever are,
That to which all manifestation is but a dream.
* * * *
Differences are only as real as you imagine them.
Conclusions are only as real as you imagine them.
Assumptions are only as real as you imagine them.
Speculations are only as real as you imagine them.
* * * *
How boggling that the human species,
Despite all the science, despite all the technology,
Still imagines itself in any way separate from the mystery it is.
* * * *
To lionize the sciences unconditionally,
Is to underplay its partnership with vanity and greed.
At what point does the point of diminishing returns become obvious?
Kind of like demolishing your house, and counting and measuring all the splinters.
* * * *
What will death be, but a huge release, complete freedom, from the captivity of awareness,
Locked in a corporeal mind-body, locked in the confining nature of any seed’s existence.
The human version saturated with every variety of illusion that imagination can muster.
Why fear, why dread, at last returning to the oblivion, to the home ground, you truly are?
* * * *
Look at the population counters, counting away, and you will get a sense,
Of how many dreams are out there, happening right now, and that is just human beings.
All life has equal access to the same simultaneous, timeless awareness.
All existence, you included, is the same mystery.
Allow it to remain a mystery.
Give it no name.
Be it.
Enjoy the quietude.
* * * *
Imagination takes you anywhere you please.
It is the magic carpet ride of this eternal mystery.
Perhaps wearing a bit thin as far as this garden goes.
* * * *
And if there is, perchance, an all-powerful God running it all,
What have you/we revealed to him/her/it in your/our strut upon the stage.
How weary I am after just one lifetime; imagine if you had been forced to witness it all.
Not planning to apply for that position anytime ever.
* * * *
What will death be, but a huge release, complete freedom, from the captivity of awareness,
In a corporeal mind-body, saturated with every variety of illusion that imagination can muster.
Why fear, why dread, at last returning to the oblivion, to the homestead, you ever really-truly are?
* * * *
A world full of documentation in every imaginable medium for the aliens to scrutinize,
When they finally happen upon the third dust ball from its smallish star,
That it still orbits as it did when life existed upon it.
* * * *
The sciences, the mathematics, the technologies, and all the other intellectual pursuits,
Have investigated anything and everything to unimaginable heights and depths,
But there is a point of diminishing returns we have long since surpassed.
When will we finally discern the meaninglessness, the absurdity,
Of the infinity of zeros on either side of the decimal point?
* * * *
An unmindful breath is imagination’s most potent weapon in the usurpation of awareness.
One can only speculate, how much of the human paradigm, is really about oxygen deprivation.
What strange things these endorphins, these chemical reactions, in this magical electromagnetic body,
That has taken all genesis, all creation, gazillions of trips around our wee little star,
To create the one You are in, in this particular space and time.
You are witness to a sensory-inspired theater,
A sensory-inspired matrix,
A sensory-inspired, ineffable mystery.
There need be, there can be, no more explanation.
* * * *
Growing older becomes something of a tick-tick-tick countdown to death.
Moving closer moment by moment, to what, you do know, to what, you cannot know.
All religions, all the middleman, across all times, all geographies, are talking through their hats.
No one knows, no one has ever known, no one will ever know,
Anything but what imagination imagines.
* * * *
Every moment is tabula rasa, tabula rasa is every moment,
Through which consciousness involuntarily scribes it imaginary pretenses,
Except in those rare few capable of stilling the mind enough,
To discern the operating system underlying all.
* * * *
Neither cosmos nor world revolve around you.
It kaleidoscopes within and without the timeless eye of awareness.
As you scan this, gazillions beyond gazillions of moments, have streamed before the senses.
Do not dwell on the in and out of each and every breath of a body bound to illusion.
Focus instead, on it flowing through the mind, that space you truly ever are,
In which the mystery, each and every timeless, indelible moment,
Simultaneously enters and exits, as it does any stream.
* * * *
The awareness you are, requires a mind, a vehicle, a theater,
In which to envision its imaginary quantum creation.
To believe you are the vessel, is to miss entirely,
That no vain notion carries water for long.
* * * *
If you feel called to serve, serve the awareness, serve the matrix, serve the moment, serve the now,
Whose quantum mystery casts into all sensory theaters the illusion of space and time.
Walk spontaneously, walk anonymously, do whatever the moment calls.
No need to make a big thing about the imaginary character.
The mystery you truly are, is beyond all need of vanity or avarice.
* * * *
Play hedonism and narcissism from abstinence to moderate to extreme,
It is all the same awareness through which the winds of illusion blow.
* * * *
What is light? What is sound? What is smell? What is touch? What is taste?
But sensory illusions the mind-body every moment creates,
In whatever way nature-nurture dictates.
Free will? Hah!
* * * *
The awakening, is realizing you have a front-and-center-row seat,
To your world, your universe, your mind-body’s nature-nurture, your now.
All other dualistic notions, all blacks and whites, fall to the wayside; relativity reigns.
* * * *
Whether words are scientific or philosophical,
None have any influence over truth, any control of truth.
It is only vanity that stokes any arguments about the way it is, and is not.
* * * *
Who, what, where, when, why, how, are you,
But imagination, imagining itself real,
In the emptiness of awareness.
* * * *
Odds are, it is imagination that wakes up every morning,
And drags You along through whatever the day has in store.
* * * *
Show me what will happen in one minute,
Just a few miles away, or half-way across the world,
And I will believe space-time is more than an imaginary notion.
* * * *
If there is a God, do we really look any bigger than bacteria from on high?
From that aloof vantage, is he/she/it even aware of our Vanity Fair absurdity?
Has anything we have ever done to venerate he/she/it, ever meant diddly-squat?
Keep placing your bets, ladies and gentlemen, fools and treasure are easily parted.
* * * *
Storytelling will never end, because that is how imagination reigns,
Over the emptiness, the pointlessness, the tabula rasa, of immaculate awareness.
Or so it seems to believe, across all the many variations of vanity,
Humankind has, since long ago, played out.
* * * *
Whether you ‘Do unto others as you wish them to do unto you’ Golden Rule it … or not,
Is an every moment, nature-nurture choiceless choice, sculpting your imaginary destiny.
* * * *
For the human species to survive much longer,
It must somehow recalibrate itself with the rules of the game.
The choices of vain notion have nothing to do with it, never have, never will.
The world, the cosmos, the mystery, are every moment in precise quantum-clock equilibrium.
The only real question is whether our kind, and all our fellow earthlings, small to large,
Can manage to survive the holocaust into which it is every moment headed.
* * * *
What you think, what you do not think, what you do, what you do not do,
When you are alone, when no one is watching, when no one but you knows,
Says everything about the nature-nurture, imaginary you,
That can be ever be said or written.
* * * *
Every genomic sequence has a shelf life,
There is no denying it, there is no escaping it,
Despite all delusional confabulations to the contrary.
* * * *
What did it take for this, or any of these many thoughts, to reach your awareness?
All of creation, and prior to that, if speculation be tickled and taunted.
Written for those who modestly hunger for prior to more.
For those who seek the one and only true Self within any and all.
* * * *
How grunts evolved into so many diverse languages across all geographies,
Before they were annihilated by conquest and colonization,
Is something we can now only imagine.
* * * *
What an amazing thing, imagination,
That it can devise industry and technology to such a degree.
What would it do, were it to have unlimited resources and a wormhole garbage disposal?
* * * *
Do not be fooled by façade and bluster and bluff.
Every human being is filled with such a deep insecurity,
That many, if not most, spend their entire temporal dreamtime,
Avoiding, evading, bargaining, deluding, in every way imaginable.
To challenge the insecurity squarely, is embrace the mystery.
* * * *
What are all life forms, but blobs of all shapes and sizes, wrapped in one covering or another.
Only blobs that call themselves human beings have imagination enough,
To play out their temporal existence as thespians.
Actors who believe themselves more real than real can ever be.
* * * *
How can this done-as-quickly-as-it-happens dream of space and time,
Be considered anything more than impromptu theater, full of every imaginable intrigue.
But, for those whose nature-nurture have given the intelligence, the wit, to step outside any and all limits,
It is an opportunity to witness the mystery in whatever way frame of reference allows.
* * * *
Let the vain be vain, the greedy be greedy, the powerful be powerful.
It is their avarice for more-more-more that has made it possible,
For you to be here observing this grand mystery, as they never will.
You will not even one iota change the world, but it need not change you.
* * * *
Hope for the best, plan for the worst.
Hope has an ofttimes irrational, delusional, unprepared fan base,
But those of a more rational bent, those who know the difference between caution and fear,
Know it is never ever a good idea not to be ready for the worst,
For the worst can happen any moment, any place, any time,
As history again and again proves, every way imaginable.
* * * *
Light will travel through a vacuum at 300 million meters per second.
The speed of sound through air is about 340 meters per second.
And what of taste? And what of smell? And what of touch?
What exactly is this dream that the five senses weave?
And does any universe exist without a witness to create it?
* * * *
The dream of time spins on and on and on and on.
Never more than a dream of consciousness.
Never more than a dream of imagination.
Never more than a dream of mystery.
Never more than a dream of You.
* * * *
Like cattle, like sheep, driven down from rolling hills,
The young of human descent are gradually herded
Into the chutes of their given nature-nurture destinies.
Civilization is founded upon the domestication of everything.
Only in the evolution, the revolution, of consciousness, of imagination,
Can the inherent wildness, the inherent fierceness, of origin, be at least whiffed.
* * * *
What effort it takes to politic, to maneuver and fire, as the moment calls.
How much simpler might-makes-right must have been,
Before the advent of language, infused with the infinity of imagination,
Before the fruit of knowledge was first plucked, and the exodus from the garden underway.
* * * *
If you are called to something greater than your imaginary dreamer,
All you need do is serve the awareness, serve the moment,
Serve the matrix, serve the mystery, there is no other.
No need for crystal cathedrals climbing to divine summits,
Nor charlatans between you and whatever they claim the mystery to be.
* * * *
Vanity is naught but the fluff, the huff and puff, of imagination.
It means absolutely nothing to the world, to the cosmos, to mystery.
* * * *
Are you this imaginary part in the human paradigm, the human chronicle, the human debacle?
Or simply You, witnessing; simply You, present; simply You, right here, right now;
Simply You, the one and only, ever-present, unborn-undying moment.
The same one that twinkles in the eye of the awareness.
* * * *
When did the first notion of your imaginary sense of self take place?
When did the first scratches appear on the empty slate, the tabula rasa?
* * * *
All that is imagined is only real in imagination.
To be that awareness, to be that witness, prior to imagination,
Is to be free of history, free of all that is known, free of all that limits the spirit;
* * * *
What need does nature, what need does awareness, have for gods and demons?
What need for any imaginary temporal confabulations born of human insecurity?
* * * *
There are no limits to the ways and means a con man will use to hoodwink the sheep forever again.
A confidence trick is an attempt to defraud a person or group after first gaining their trust.
Since the dawn, confidence tricksters have exploited victims using their credulity,
Naïveté, compassion, vanity, confidence, irresponsibility, and greed.
To which trickster do you without reserve give your attention and tithing?
And are they ‘finally’ content with that new mansion, new sports car, new Lear Jet?
* * * *
How can philosophy, the study of life, the inquiry into what is real, what is factual, what is genuine,
Be confined by any time, be confined by any geography, be confined by any circumstance?
How can it be called Western or Eastern, or any other arbitrary, dualistic notion?
If any given truth applies to one, it must apply to all, else it is not truth.
* * * *
To delve into true aloneness, true solitude, true seclusion, true isolation,
Put behind family, friends, strangers, adversaries, and all other endless attachments to mind and body.
Let go the ever-stormy, ever confused, ever violent world, we have together crafted,
With its seemingly endless collection of insanities and absurdities,
Headlining every moment of every day.
* * * *
Most minds are more attached to their imagination,
Than they are the truth from which all imagination comes.
* * * *
Why deprive your Self of a good, full, fearless, desireless, breath of air?
Giving your awareness back to the moment it is, is the serenity,
That no imaginary character can in mind, ever achieve.
* * * *
How do you measure a collection of instants,
But through the sensory illusion of imagination
* * * *
The quantum can do whatever the limits of being a quantum are.
Why should the electromagnetic spectrum be confined
By any imaginary notion devised by mind?
* * * *
Your little mansion, your little castle,
What will come of it in one hundred years?
What will come of it in one hundred million years?
Vanity is an absurd joke.
* * * *
What is a philosopher but a rational mind,
Whose perceptive detachment from the manifest theater,
Allows him to examine it so closely in every way,
That he discerns it as only the dead can.
* * * *
What would happen if humankind across the world, somehow awakened to its eternal nature?
How would we behave toward each other, and the garden, we have so brought to its knees?
How would we mend ourselves, and the environment, we have so abused and neglected?
What discourse would there be, if vanity and greed no longer spun their absurdities?
What decisions would the species make to become guardians instead of destroyers?
* * * *
What an idle, meaningless pipe dream, to even bother thinking
The Titanic could have avoided the iceberg, that was its destiny.
* * * *
The Garden of Life and Death.
The Garden of Good and Evil.
The Garden of Desire and Fear.
The Garden of Sweet and Bitter.
The Garden of Black and White.
The Garden of Sound and Silence.
The Garden of Kind and Callous.
The Garden of Full and Empty.
The Garden of Hot and Cold.
The Garden of Ones and Zeros.
The Garden of Dualistic Notion.
* * * *
The human species has scrutinized and dissected the world
In every way imaginable, every way plausible, every way feasible.
Alas that we are long past putting Humpty Dumpty back together again.
* * * *
No need to ever inquire deeply, if it does not call you.
There are distractions beyond all counting,
For as many lifetimes as you like,
Or at least for as many,
As this dream world has in store.
* * * *
Are you really open to forgetting your imaginary self?
To regain your true Self, to abide in the pure awareness the moment is?
Are you really willing to be dead before your time?
* * * *
Why would it ever matter if you are the only one to see this great truth?
There is no need to proselytize, no need to organize, no need to demonize.
There is no need to create any philosophy, form any cult, foster any fortune.
You are free to spend the rest of your dream, a totally anonymous witness.
You can spend it sitting staring at a wall, or on a barstool at the local pub.
No one will give a second thought, if you do not raise your hand to speak.
* * * *
How many generations has it taken since life’s beginning,
To finally reach your ephemeral window of imagination’s future past?
And unless you have not brought children into dreamtime, not forwarded your seed line,
There is no knowing what chronicle your lineage will someday withstand,
In whatever theater the human paradigm has yet to play,
Before its inevitable, inexorable extinction.
* * * *
Imagine, if you will, being that newborn again.
Pure awareness, out into the light, the noise, the hunger, the pain, the fear,
And what it took for consciousness, for imagination, to shape it, mold it, whittle it, into the universe,
In which you every moment tread, playing out the dream as you do.
We are all very much alone, together.
* * * *
Consciousness (a.k.a., imagination), the great usurper,
Is a trickster, a jester, a charlatan, a skalawag, a scoundrel, a pretender,
With every imaginable diversion, every ways and means, every moment, at its beck and call.
Ever enticing the awareness that you are, that you are not,
Away from its eternal nature.
* * * *
Do you really, truly, know anything for sure?
Or only pretend to, for whatever reasons, only you know.
Whatever the case, know well, know beyond true,
That you are far from being first or last,
And are first and last all the while.
* * * *
Doubt, hesitation, disbelief, critical thinking, a predisposition towards rationality,
Are what make for the philosophical mind, and the mischief to which it lays claim.
* * * *
Awareness of Self is much more, much less, than imagination
Can ever more than swathe in the smoke and mirrors of time.
* * * *
Fathom your world, fathom your universe.
It will be as immense, or as small, as your imagination.
What was it before you were born? What will it be after you die?
* * * *
What is being investigated in this long and winding, tedious, cumbersome, philosophical edifice,
And many others across all times, all spaces, is whether awareness can be the go-to.
Giving it the reigns to imagination, rather than the other way around.
Consciousness need not be the willy-nilly, insane absurdity,
For those who have the wit to spin it rationally.
* * * *
Yet another day, same mind, same body, same instincts, same routine, same storyline.
Awareness can do nothing more than witness; it is the unborn-undying, sleepless eye of eternity.
Taking the Red Pill, the no-stone-unturned existence, is a quest to which few are inclined.
Any fallacy, any delusion, any lie, can only usurp the truth in undiscerning minds.
* * * *
Regarding the patterning to which all are witness, always be mindful that it is every moment,
Patterning along, humming along, with the entire universe, with the entire mystery.
None can ever, in any way, any shape, any form, be a free-will-free-agent,
Because the mind-body cannot, for even one moment,
Disconnect from the sensory theater to which it is mortally bound.
And thus, it is imagination, the creator of all delusions, the architect of all destinies,
To which the dualistic task of individuality falls, and every absurdity played, in the fall from grace.
* * * *
As if we are not alien enough on this blue marble, chock-full of Darwinian aliens,
We are driven by narcissism and hedonism, by vanity and greed,
To concoct every media fiction imaginable.
There are no limits,
To what our kind will do, to entertain itself to death.
* * * *
Full attention to breath brings the mind to focus on the moment at hand.
Challenging to do conscious breathing, if you cannot manage to stay focused.
Imagination will use any and every trick to waylay awareness back to its dream.
* * * *
No worries if you are still very attached
To your mind-body, and the dream about you.
The matrix, the carnivàle, is full of blue-pill zombies,
Who believe it all enough to play on for as long as possible.
* * * *
What can be reincarnated in the timeless, unborn-undying moment?
Consciousness, imagination, is but creator and creation of this ineffable mystery.
Awareness is without intention or concern; what need does it have to be born again and again?
Consciousness believes it is an individual drop, playing out some glorious destiny.
Awareness is the ocean, in which all drops are indivisibly one.
* * * *
How is there fear, or any other passion,
But for imagination’s attachment to the sensations
Of eye and ear and nose and tongue and flesh in the eye of mind,
All together, or separately, or in any combination.
* * * *
Electricity was first demonstrated in 1881,
When Lucien Gaulard of France and John Gibbs of England
Arranged the first successful alternating-current electrical demonstration in London.
Colonel Drake’s heralded discovery of oil in Pennsylvania in 1859
And the Spindletop discovery in Texas in 1901,
Set the stage for the new oil economy.
Those two simple things, electricity and oil,
Have, in just less than 150 years, been the impetus,
That has taken the dream to staggering heights and depths.
As Robert Pirsig wrote in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance:
“And what is good, and what is not good, need we ask anyone to tell us these things?”
* * * *
If you believe you are the seed and the mind-body it becomes,
Then you are caught in the willy-nilly illusions and delusions of consciousness.
If you are the awareness prior to consciousness, you are the ever-present, transcendent moment.
* * * *
Imagination usurped the mystery of awareness many long ago’s in the mind’s evolution.
It is not easily recovered, except in minds able to turn a blind eye to the world, to the cosmos.
Seers, mystics, sages, who wander freely about, aloof from the helter-skelter of the sensory theater.
* * * *
The eyes, the ears, the nose, the tongue, the flesh, are sensory organs feeding into the brain.
Ergo, what the ever-dreaming, imaginary mind dreams, what the awareness witnesses,
Is nothing more than sensation, nothing more than quantum doing its mechanics.
* * * *
Humankind’s tool-making capacity has made it possible
For the observation and measurement and manipulation of all things quantum.
The accelerating exponential of the unutterable devastation and pain and suffering, of the absurdity,
Every moment calls into question, however, its aptitude for saving us from ourselves.
File it under the usual suspects: Brother Irony and Sister Paradox.
* * * *
Any living organism is an energy structure, an energy system, an energy dynamic,
Through which awareness peers out into a universe of energy arrays.
The electromagnetic spectrum has no knowable bounds,
And imagination is but a thief, a player, dreaming itself real.
* * * *
How can you ever hope to explain this mystery to a true believer,
Too shuttered in, to closed off, too certain, to listen, much less hear?
* * * *
You are naught but awareness witnessing a dreamtime.
The crunch and goo will someday fall away,
And you will remain as you are.
Immortality is like that.
* * * *
Your fate, your destiny, your kismet, is whatever you were programmed to do,
In the touchy-feely dream of space-time you have been allotted.
Some get a Royal Flush, some, not even a high card.
All you can do, all you need do, all you will do,
Is play the hand dealt by nature-nurture as best you can.
* * * *
You are ever the same You.
Everything is ever the same You.
There is nothing that is not the same You.
No matter the dimension.
No matter the quantum.
No matter the matrix.
No matter the universe.
No matter the galaxy.
No matter the star.
No matter the world.
No matter the space.
No matter the time.
No matter the culture.
No matter the language.
No matter the mind-body.
No matter the dream.
No matter the gender.
No matter the costume.
No matter the vocation.
No matter the dogma.
No matter the politics.
No matter the attitude.
No matter the whatever.
You are ever the same You.
* * * *
Frail bags of crunch and goo is all we are,
And for every motive imaginable, we spend our time,
Liking each other, loving each other, despising each other,
Lying to each other, stealing from each other, cheating each other,
Adulating, scratching, raping, pillaging, killing, each other.
What a thing for frail bags of crunch and goo to do.
* * * *
There you go again, making it as real as it can be,
In its unsurprisingly illusionally-delusionally way.
* * * *
This existence, this dream of space and time, is so ‘friggin implausible,
That it has journeyed well beyond the heart of darkness,
Into the deep, dark jungle of absurdity.
* * * *
Being present in the timeless now, is the most simple state the eternal moment offers.
How ironic, how paradoxical, that it is among the most arduous for imagination to bear,
Given how the breezes and gales of illusion and delusion so easily distract the wavering mind.
* * * *
Your true birth was Genesis, Big Bang,
Turtles all the way up, all the way down, whatever.
And before that, you were never born.
Or so the speculation goes.
* * * *
Why keep thinking of your imaginary self at all?
Why keep playing that record over and over and over?
You need not imprison, need not torture your Self, all the time.
* * * *
The precedents of history, of tradition, of culture, of any imaginary brew,
Are binding only to those whose minds have been molded to believe them.
* * * *
Imagine levers majestically directed with lofty intent all you please;
There are neither levers, nor some majestic guide or guides with lofty intent.
Those layers filled with bones and oil and other treasures, were long in the making.
You are but current issue in an ever-streaming process which has neither beginning nor end,
And all speculations, all assumptions, all hypotheses, all opinions, all sentiments,
Are pointless, hollow, irrelevant, futile, needless, vain, absurd.
Consciousness can never more than imagine
The source of its mystery.
* * * *
This here-now, ever-present, eternal moment, this timeless awareness, is all there is.
There are no other moments, no other space-times, no other dimensions, no other dreams.
You are captive to its kaleidoscoping intrigues for as long as the mind-body is fated to endure.
* * * *
Rest assured, your fate, your destiny, your kismet, will find you, will define you, will confine you.
Trying to prevent it, trying to flee it, trying to alter it, even trying to tweak it,
Are but pointless acts, gestures, theatrics, born of vanity.
* * * *
What dreams are,
What dreams have been,
What dreams are yet to come,
Only awareness knows.
* * * *
How can anyone ever truly perceive, truly understand, truly inhale, any culture,
To which they do not have first-hand entrée from the earliest etchings.
The harmonies between all dreams cannot be discerned,
But in the relative light of a relative mind.
* * * *
Yesterday, today, tomorrow … what differences, really,
But in the boundaries, the frames, the limits, of imagination?
* * * *
What is the Way? What is the Truth? What is the Life?
To see, and not see; to hear, and not hear; to taste, and not taste;
To smell, and not smell; to feel, and not feel; to imagine, and not imagine.
That how it works for human beings, many who are more often “human becomings”.
What other creature gives it any thought, any question, any doubt, at all?
* * * *
It is the spaceless-timeless abyss of awareness, the unborn-undying, ever-present now,
Through which all quantum dreams ceaselessly kaleidoscope, with slumber the only respite.
The sensory play, the sensory mind-body, is but the illusion, the delusion, of imagination.
* * * *
How does the realization of that beyond all doubt,
Not leave all who perceive it, in stupefied wonder?
* * * *
Science does not have the will, the mojo, the power, to displace superstition with rationality.
It requires too much exertion for minds not bent towards critical thinking and wisdom.
So, irrationality and absurdity and insanity still rule great portions of the planet,
Lock-stepping to the genomic sequencing evolved in the jungles of long ago.
* * * *
Consciousness (a.k.a., imagination) slices and dices the quantum pie in every possible way.
The ever-present, timeless now of awareness, has no blade with which to slice or dice anything.
It is simply, purely, absolute witness to the mystery kaleidoscoping in its immeasurable expanses.
* * * *
To hope, or not to hope, that is the question.
What is hope?
What is hope, but:
Hope is to:
Hope is:
Hope:
Go back to the drawing board
Beat around the bush
That ship has sailed
Go down in flames
Have eyes bigger than one's stomach
Fly in the ointment
A dime a dozen
A bitter pill to swallow
Call it a day
Take with a grain of salt
Cutting corners
All thumbs
Get your act together
Break a leg
It's not rocket science
Make a long story short
Wild goose chase
Straw that broke the camel's back
Miss the boat
No horse in this race
Hook, line and sinker
Couch potato
Heard it through the grapevine
At the drop of a hat
Barking up the wrong tree
A hot potato
By the seat of one's pants
Chink in one's armor
Bird brain
Cut somebody some slack
My two cents
Kill two birds with one stone
Bed of roses
Pull someone's leg
Pull yourself together
Speak of the devil
Time flies when you're having fun
By the skin of one's teeth
Two a penny
Elephant in the room
Don't count chickens before they hatch
No dog in this fight
To make matters worse
For a song
Pushing up daisies
Trip the light fantastic
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it
Shoot the breeze
Throw under the bus
Wrap your head around something
Screw the pooch
Your guess is as good as mine
You can say that again
* * * *
Where is time, where is space, in the indivisible awareness of the moment?
Where are creation, preservation, destruction, in the indivisible awareness of the moment?
What are they but illusion, but delusion, created by the sensory mirage, the dreamtime of consciousness.
* * * *
Prayer is for those lost to the delusions of illusion.
For those not comprehending there are no deities but they.
And no amount of supplication for anything the mind can conceive,
Whether for themselves or others, is going to save any.
* * * *
You were tabula rasa, an empty slate,
Until traumatic moments, from minor to harsh,
Little by little, imperceptively, unabashedly, irrevocably,
Familiarized you, initiated you, remanded you, to the human race.
Swayed you, molded you, wrought you, forged you, scarred you, crippled you,
Into the human being you are, the one reading this, in a lifetime quest to be inwardly free.
* * * *
Except in lofty, exalted, grandiose, majestic, tributes to one absurdity or another,
No one will be remembered forever, nor exist forever, nor whatever forever.
There is no forever in which anyone or anything can be remembered.
The matrix of space-time is but a magical illusion playing out in the abyss.
What is there to say, but “Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.”
* * * *
Imagine the Grecian thinkers of old, in their robes,
Speaking to forums filled with critical minds,
Perceiving the candor in every thought.
Together, unearthing the mystery.
As some minds are wont to do.
* * * *
Where would humankind be without all the scientists, all the engineers,
All the mathematicians, all the inventors, all the architects, all the tradesmen,
Who have all together designed and built and repaired this world of entitlement?
This garden orb of exponentially accelerating absurdity that we all so take for granted.
Being top-dog-kings-of-the-dust ball will not mean much if there is no world left
To blithely, foolishly, with little hesitation, abuse and neglect and destroy.
So, thank those engineers and all their compatriots for their service,
And prepare for the reality, that what goes up, will come down.
* * * *
Forgive propaganda and its countless lies, its misrepresentations, for it knows not what it does.
It does not know the worry, the anguish, the distress, the suffering, the misery, the pain,
The grief, the despair, the wretchedness, the misfortune, the calamity, the trouble,
The affliction, the sadness, the agony, the torture, the cruelty, the heartbreak,
The destruction, it inflicts, it exacts, it wreaks, in every imaginable way.
That is in the minds, the wills, the tribal afflictions, of those who contrive it.
* * * *
What is the state, the condition, the quality, of mind,
When time and space cease to exist as imaginary notions?
* * * *
Any group is capable of believing they are the Chosen Ones.
Any individual is capable of believing s/he is the Chosen One.
There is no summit to which vanity is not adept at ascending.
There is no gutter to which vanity is not adept at descending.
* * * *
Except in fictional literature, except in fictional movies,
Nobody comes back from the annihilation of death,
Unless they were never dead and done in the first place.
Hope and pray as much as you will, oblivion is the fate of all.
* * * *
Gumption |ˈɡəmpSH(ə)n| noun … is defined as
Informal shrewd or spirited initiative and resourcefulness.
Gumption: shrewd or spirited initiative and resourcefulness.
Initiative, resourcefulness, enterprise, ingenuity, imagination, astuteness,
Shrewdness, acumen, sense, common sense, wit, mother wit, practicality, spirit, pluck,
Backbone, mettle, nerve, courage, wherewithal, get-up-and-go, spunk,
Oomph, moxie, savvy, horse sense, street smarts.
Concepts to bear in mind and heart in the coming storm.
Grit |ɡrit| noun … is defined as courage and resolve; strength of character.
Grit: courage, courageousness, bravery, pluck, mettle, mettlesomeness, backbone, spirit,
Strength of character, strength of will, moral fiber, steel, nerve, gameness, valor,
Fortitude, toughness, hardiness, resolve, determination, resolution;
Stamina, doggedness, tenacity, perseverance, endurance;
Informal gumption, guts, spunk; British informal bottle; vulgar slang balls.
How will your life play out, what will you accomplish,
If you do not cultivate them?
* * * *
As you dance back and forth between imagination and awareness,
Enjoy both as you glean them of the fruit of the garden,
Such as it is in its ever-present dreamtime.
* * * *
Who created this Supreme Being that so many revere?
A query true believers will neither, can neither, question nor answer,
For every response quickly becomes turtles all the way up, turtles all the way down.
And what matter whether there is a peerless deity on high or not, really?
This touchy-feely 3D dream is equally the same mystery,
No matter imagination’s perspective.
* * * *
We all imagine entirely different worlds, entirely different universes.
How can any one mind’s illusory creation be more real than any others?
* * * *
The world, the universe, you in mind, in imagination, create, is yours, and yours alone.
Like fingerprints and genomic sequences, no world, no universe, can ever be seen the same.
And the translation between all these worlds, all these universes, well, you see how that has gone.
We are as close to getting along peacefully as the ancestors that exited the jungles long ago.
* * * *
The point of food is nourishment; the point of sex is reproduction.
Pleasure is an extraneous thing, an imaginary thing,
For which the true cost can be very high,
If restraint does not rule.
* * * *
Any push, any nudge to change a fate, is only a few moments of that same fate.
There is no escaping, there is no avoiding, there is no denying,
For to be born, is to one day endure dying,
And the lineage of perceptions between, is destiny.
* * * *
Put all the middlemen, all the parasites, all the predators, all the toll booths, well behind you,
And examine, scrutinize, for yourself, the masterworks of the many scribes of old.
Each, and each very much alone, must meander through the illusion,
To, for themselves, discern the truth behind all veils.
* * * *
Whether your view is founded on scientific inquiry or magical thinking,
You may well believe you know something of this dreamtime’s beginning,
But rest assured, you will never, you can never, more than imagine its ending.
* * * *
New concepts, new jargon, new idioms, new metaphors, new beliefs, new sounds, new whatever,
Always have the potential to burst into consciousness any given linguistic moment,
All further mystifying and exacerbating an already polarized species.
* * * *
If there is indeed a deity-on-high, he/she/it,
Might well have long, long ago set all this quantum in motion,
And just like any earnest scientist, is watching the entire dream, to see what comes of it.
No attachment to anything, just pure tabula rasa awareness of everything.
Just like any earnest scientist observing microorganisms
Milling about willy-nilly in a Petri dish.
Ain’t speculation fun?
* * * *
Many a mind is in an almost constant state of flux,
Including judgments and measurements and stereotypes,
Played out in every way, every shape, every form, imaginable.
To rein in the beast requires a wit and a will few can easily maintain.
* * * *
What will death be but the disincorporation of a body, the dissolution of a dream,
And the unborn-undying awareness of the you, that you have ever been, all that remains.
Call it whatever you will, it is from that original state that you became conscious,
It is that which endured existence, it is that to which all things return.
* * * *
If you want to imagine what this world will look like in thousands of years,
Assuming, of course, we somehow manage to continue on as we are,
Read a few dystopian books, watch a few dystopian movies,
And you will be up to snuff on the many options that genre offers.
* * * *
Language, being the ever-changing play of consciousness that it is,
How can there ever be accurate translation between two or more frames of reference?
Even the most sincere, serious, intent between two like-minds,
Can stumble along unshared trails.
* * * *
Awareness is an impenetrable, changeless stillness, both clear and obscure.
It is that in which creation and preservation and destruction compose genesis.
It is the soul of all dreams, it is the source of all potentials, it is the eye of all eyes.
It is the moment, it is timeless, it is spaceless, it is eternity, right here, right now.
* * * *
No deity can save those who will not, or cannot, save themselves.
Only those still surviving cling to the enduring hope,
That they, somehow, can evade the blade,
A little longer, perchance forever, if their book be true.
* * * *
Because of the instinctual self-preservation wired by evolution into its consciousness,
Humans are neither ants nor bees nor any other predetermined alliance,
Any other true communists as defined by natural selection.
* * * *
Money, in whatever form, is but the ways and means
For greed and vanity to wield it, shape it, cloak it, make it, float it,
Into the root of all evil, so-called, by the pain and suffering they ever perpetrate.
* * * *
What is time but an imaginary construct of the human mind.
An illusion from which is hatched every conceivable delusion.
* * * *
Memories are but electromagnetic-chemical reactions, perceived by awareness.
They can never be what really happened from more than a single perspective, yours.
Your frame of reference, your translation, your values, your opinions, your judgments.
* * * *
There is only the moment, there is only the timeless now.
The entire human paradigm is an impromptu theater of imagination.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
Existence is enough.
The moment is enough.
It does not require stories.
It does not require philosophies.
It does not require deities or dogmas.
It does not require more, more, ever more.
It does not require meaning, it does not require purpose.
It does not require power or wealth or celebrity.
It does not require pedestrian groupthink.
It does not require political sanction.
It does not require consciousness.
It does not require knowledge.
It does not require anything.
Not even the illusory you.
The moment is enough.
Existence is enough.
* * * *
You have read the books, seen the movies, know the tales of so many histories,
And the oh-so-many-ways people can die, in both fiction and nonfiction,
And how would it be, if you could experience them all, each and every one?
Imagine dying … every … imaginable … death … for all eternity … Ooh-la-la.
* * * *
Your individual dream of consciousness, of imagination,
Is but an infinitesimal splinter of the grand dream of all dreams,
And that is naught but the very same moment all eternity is,
All that is not, all that never was, all that will never be.
* * * *
How would any memory of some past existence,
Be any more or less real, any more or less imaginary,
Than the perception forged just a moment ago.
* * * *
If there is some sort of Supreme Being responsible for all this kaleidoscoping creation,
Then surely it is intolerably weary of consciousness,
At least at times.
* * * *
When did imagination begin? And who was it before? Who will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And what was it before? What will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And where was it before? Where will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And when was it before? Where when it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And why was it before? Why will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And how was it before? How will it be after it ends?
* * * *
Only human beings imagine good and evil to be real.
Is there any other earthing who conceives such absurdity?
* * * *
How is awareness any different than consciousness?
How is consciousness different than memory?
Ho is memory different than imagination?
How is imagination different than perception?
How is perception any different than awareness?
* * * *
It is already long-gone, long-lost, long-forgotten,
Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
Just a way to putter away in an imaginary mindscape.
* * * *
You believe your salvation is yoked to your creed?
You believe your salvation is tethered to your prayers?
Pfft, my friend, you are but tossing your hard-earned coin
To a scam artist, a shyster, with just enough talent to fool you
With one ruse after another, with one hope after another.
Take back the rudder of your reverie, take more walks,
More sits, more any and all ways, that get you home.
Explore the singular aloneness within all dreams,
The timeless awareness through which all pass.
* * * *
It is not at all important what anybody sees, hears, tastes, smells, feels.
It is not at all important what anybody thinks, believes, hopes.
The mystery is a mystery is a mystery is a mystery.
Well beyond the scope of consciousness,
Of imagination, to encapsulate.
* * * *
From the deepest trenches to the highest reaches that industry and technology are capable,
Another day of poisoning, another day of maiming, all that we can possibly touch,
Using every form of nuclear-chemical-biological interaction imaginable.
Absolute madness and absurdity, on an unfathomable scale.
All innocence suffers the ruthless, brutal wake-up call,
Of the malignant cancer that has spawned upon this garden orb.
* * * *
Yet another memory joining in with all the others,
Merging together into the synergistic frame of reference,
The dreamtime, in which you imagine your imaginary self, real.
* * * *
You have become habituated to playing this imaginary role,
In this exceedingly teensy-weensy slice of the grand theater.
* * * *
If only eternity could tell the full tale,
The mystery’s mysteries would find a resting place.
Meanwhile, dread and speculation and adversity and death will carry on
As they have since the dawn of consciousness.
* * * *
What is Genesis but a wind propelling its own sail.
What is Genesis but a brush frolicking upon its own canvas.
What is Genesis but a hammer pounding upon its own nail.
What is Genesis but a wave heading toward its own shore.
What is Genesis but a flame burning in its own darkness.
What is Genesis but a particle drifting in its own space.
What is Genesis but a dream floating in its given mind.
* * * *
Only vanity believes it is real.
Only vanity believes it is important.
Only vanity believes in gods and demons.
Only vanity believes in ghosts and monsters.
Only vanity believes in messiahs and saints.
Only vanity believes it is harbor to change.
Only vanity believes in more, more, more.
Only vanity believes nil is not an option.
Only vanity believes imagination exists.
Only vanity believes itself immortal.
Only vanity believes belief is true.
* * * *
There is no point bemoaning, no point lamenting, no point bewailing, no point mourning,
No point complaining about, no point moaning about, no point carping about
How different the health and capacity of mind and body were
In days gone by, in daze lost to imaginary glimpses of perception.
* * * *
Everyone has their own dream, their own illusion.
It can be heaven, it can be hell.
Luck of the draw.
* * * *
Who are you to assert any nature-nurture cosmos
Is any greater or lesser, better or worse, lovelier or uglier,
Than any other figment of imagination cast in this mystery theater?
* * * *
Imagination only thinks it is alive.
Imagination only dreams it is alive.
Imagination only imagines it is alive.
* * * *
What a limited, constricted view of God, so many, if not all, religions espouse.
And so many, if not all, sincerely believing they are the one and only true religion.
The self-absorbed absurdities of the human mind are surely without compare.
* * * *
As if any imaginary religion, any imaginary belief,
Any imaginary doctrine, any imaginary dogma, any imaginary value,
Any imaginary principle, any imaginary view, any imaginary code, any imaginary canon,
Any imaginary idea, any imaginary conviction, any imaginary philosophy,
Is required, has ever been required, will ever be required.
* * * *
Behind the illusory mask, behind the imaginary character,
An indelible awareness, an ineffable emptiness.
Ever unknowable, ever immeasurable, ever unfathomable,
Ever incomprehensible, ever indescribable, ever enigmatic, ever inscrutable.
* * * *
You are the current issue of your genomic lineage
Since the origin of all life several billion orbits around the sun ago.
Every moment of eternal awareness playing out the quantum dream of space and time.
* * * *
Why should you ever believe anything you cannot discern for your Self?
Always keep an open mind, but do not give your over to fallacious thinking.
* * * *
The mind is, the mind is not, a dream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a delusion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a habit.
The mind is, the mind is not, a truth.
The mind is, the mind is not, a practice.
The mind is, the mind is not, a trance.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fixation.
The mind is, the mind is not, an obsession.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fondness.
The mind is, the mind is not, a tendency.
The mind is, the mind is not, a bent.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fabrication.
The mind is, the mind is not, a lie.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pretense.
The mind is, the mind is not, a chameleon.
The mind is, the mind is not, a hope.
The mind is, the mind is not, a reality.
The mind is, the mind is not, a passion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a reverie.
The mind is, the mind is not, a hallucination.
The mind is, the mind is not, a leaning.
The mind is, the mind is not, a desire.
The mind is, the mind is not, an aspiration.
The mind is, the mind is not, an idea.
The mind is, the mind is not, a notion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a mirage.
The mind is, the mind is not, a custom.
The mind is, the mind is not, a preference.
The mind is, the mind is not, a memory.
The mind is, the mind is not, an irony.
The mind is, the mind is not, a paradox.
The mind is, the mind is not, a figment.
The mind is, the mind is not, a daydream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a wish.
The mind is, the mind is not, an ambition.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pattern.
The mind is, the mind is not, a frame.
The mind is, the mind is not, a nightmare.
The mind is, the mind is not, a trick.
The mind is, the mind is not, a tradition.
The mind is, the mind is not, a thought.
The mind is, the mind is not, a window.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fear.
The mind is, the mind is not, a template.
The mind is, the mind is not, an artifice.
The mind is, the mind is not, a custom.
The mind is, the mind is not, a convention.
The mind is, the mind is not, a chimera.
The mind is, the mind is not, a projection.
The mind is, the mind is not, an impression.
The mind is, the mind is not, a goal.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pipedream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a word.
The mind is, the mind is not, a deception.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fantasy.
The mind is, the mind is not, an addiction.
The mind is, the mind is not, a problem.
The mind is, the mind is not, a mold.
The mind is, the mind is not, a character.
The mind is, the mind is not, a liking.
The mind is, the mind is not, an inclination.
The mind is, the mind is not, a matrix.
* * * *
Real faith is a beingness so indelible, so absolute,
That no word or act, no belief or creed, is required.
* * * *
Surely, you do not in any way believe your eensy-weensy window of perception
Witnesses even an infinitesimal smidgeon of the mystery’s infinite indivisibility.
* * * *
In the world that imagination builds,
You are awareness playing a role,
Not a role, playing awareness.
* * * *
The human forebrain is but a collection of neurons,
In which awareness witness imagination frolicking,
In whatever way the given nature-nurture sanctions.
* * * *
The unyielding grip of imagination on the human paradigm is far too formidable,
But for the relentless doubt only the rarest minds have fortitude to mine.
This indelible, unfathomable, singular mystery, is every moment.
All sense of duality is but the figment of consciousness.
* * * *
Clocks, watches, calendars, or any other measurement device,
Are gauges of illusion, not reality, and most definitely not eternity.
* * * *
Imagine if you were to meet your current version when you were first starting out.
What would you think of the story, of the ramblings, of the stranger across the table?
Unlikely few could ever even begin to foresee the life and times they ended up living.
* * * *
The personal mind is an imaginary creation.
The impersonal mind you are is creation unto its Self.
It is imagination from which the awareness you are must detach.
* * * *
How can you continue believing this imaginary self is at all real, at all true?
It is an ever-kaleidoscoping quantum theater of ecstasy and agony,
Swirled in the nature-nurture dream of the given seed.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Without thought, where is time?
Forget everything; unclench your mind.
Let go your world, let go your universe; be eternity.
* * * *
Always becoming is the Sisyphean chore of insatiable imagination.
If it is serenity you quest, you will discern it in the emptiness of a still mind.
Such a simple thing, yet more arduous than any escapade the mystery could ever spin.
* * * *
When it comes to speculation about the mystery.
Best to resist imagination’s insatiable inclination.
* * * *
All the slicing and dicing of the mystery into this or that certainty,
Is the endless absurdity of imagination pretending it knows something.
What is imagination, what is consciousness, but a dream state ever babbling.
* * * *
Awareness you are; in which, through which, in whichever way,
The electromagnetic spectrum plays out its illusionary mystery theater.
* * * *
In the That I Am I Am way of seeing this dream,
The protagonist you play is not you, nor is any other, either.
Consciousness, in all its many roles, can never be more than it imagines.
* * * *
The way it was, the way it will be, is never the way it is,
In the ever-changing dream, in the never-changing moment.
* * * *
Will it really matter in one second?
Will it really matter in ten seconds?
Will it really matter in one minute?
Will it really matter in one hour?
Will it really matter in one day?
Will it really matter in one week?
Will it really matter in one month?
Will it really matter in six months?
Will it really matter in one year?
Will it really matter in two years?
Will it really matter in five years?
Will it really matter in ten years?
Will it really matter in twenty years?
Will it really matter in one hundred years?
Will it really matter in five hundred years?
Will it really matter in one thousand years?
Will it really matter in ten thousand years?
Will it really matter in twenty thousand years?
Will it really matter in one hundred thousand years?
Will it really matter in one million years?
Will it really matter in ten million years?
Will it really matter in one hundred million years?
Will it really matter in one billion years?
Will it really matter in ten billion years?
Will it really matter in one trillion years?
Will it really matter in one gazillion years?
Did it really ever matter at all?
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.
* * * *
Do you truly-without-doubt believe God gives a rat’s ass whether your team wins?
Are you really so pathetically self-absorbed to believe he or she or it,
Is focused entirely on you or your wretched little tribe?
That all your hopes and prayers mean squat in some divine plan?
Just perhaps next year’s New Year Resolution should be to fucking wake up.
* * * *
What need to make pure awareness, pure beingness, a group activity,
Filled with all the usual suspects that wrap themselves
Around dogma born of conscious design.
* * * *
Irony and paradox are no match for ignorance and absurdity.
They can but ridicule and mimic them from the sidelines,
And risk being bludgeoned and burnt at the stake.
* * * *
Time-bound imagination imagines itself existing forever.
Unborn-undying awareness is harbor to no such delusion.
* * * *
Who is the perceiver but the one in all.
Who said there must be meaning and purpose?
Who said this mystery has to make sense?
* * * *
Stream of consciousness.
Stream of imagination.
Stream of dreamtime.
All the same thing.
All the same mystery.
* * * *
History is a rolodex of story after story.
All born of imagination’s usurpation of the moment.
So many pretending they know so much, pretending to be so much.
An absurd little dream of countless forays into every inanity imagination can devise;
All to be forgotten in natural selection’s unintended consequences file.
* * * *
That we even believe there is, or is not, a god or gods,
Is among the first and last vanities born of imagination.
* * * *
If you have to be something,
If you have to recall something,
If you have to accomplish something,
Then you are overlooking the awareness,
This moment in which everything transpires.
Who is the perceiver but the one in all.
* * * *
Imagination is but a pattern, a habit, born of nature-nurture’s evolutionary happenchance.
A touchy-feely dream in the electromagnetic spectrum’s beyond-all-pales mystery theater.
No need to get more attached to the apparent reality of it than the given moment calls.
* * * *
All that passion, all that angst, all that whatever,
Is merely imagination getting the better of you.
* * * *
Imagination certainly has a knack for poking its nose
Into anything and everything it can possibly imagine.
Soundbites
The sway of compliments and their opposites, are the weavers of vanity.
* * * *
Viewing what is, through the lens of what was, creates every variety of imaginary notion.
* * * *
Who-what-where-when-why-how is any boundary, but the world, the universe, that imagination built.
* * * *
Sentimental vanity, the dust storm of imagination.
* * * *
Do not believe the poof of your own imaginary myth, or any others, for that matter.
* * * *
More absurdity by the day.
* * * *
Name that illusion.
* * * *
Vanity is the glue of illusion.
* * * *
History evaporates as surely as any body of water in the hot-cold of dreamtime.
* * * *
What a weight, what a bother, all that self-imagining.
* * * *
The human paradigm is entirely the invention of imagination; its reality, but an agreed-upon notion.
* * * *
The entire human paradigm is an exercise in imagination.
* * * *
You are nothing more than a pawn of imagination.
* * * *
In awareness, no memory resides.
* * * *
How can awareness retain a memory?
* * * *
How much of this world, this cosmos, this dreamtime, do you want to keep inflicting upon your moment?
* * * *
What memory need any universe retain?
* * * *
Fiction no more.
* * * *
Microbes so vain as to try to get as many other microbes to care about them as possible.
* * * *
Let us imagine the choices born of free will.
* * * *
Is there a universe without its creation, without you, to imagine it?
* * * *
An absurd world replete with horror galore.
* * * *
All science and mathematics are really doing is measuring illusion.
* * * *
The no-mind is nothing more than the right-here-right-now prior-to-consciousness awareness.
* * * *
Every language morphs on and on and on, for as long as imagination rolls.
* * * *
Are you the awareness, or the absurdity passing through?
* * * *
Nothing imaginary has ever, will ever, can ever, mean anything.
* * * *
Destiny is all, when illusion and delusion reign.
* * * *
Entitlement is the stuff of dreams.
* * * *
If there ever were a Frankenstein, it is the future human consciousness hath wrought.
* * * *
Who is in control, Imagination or You?
* * * *
What will become of all that vanity that whirls about your head?
* * * *
What is the state of consciousness not weighed down by the vagaries of memory?
* * * *
Imagination and sexuality are very closely linked in the rise (and fall) of the human paradigm.
* * * *
How can imagination ever mean anything?
* * * *
You play the illusion-delusion your integrity allows.
* * * *
Ignore that imaginary world; become the awareness you are, as often as attention allows.
* * * *
What are you holding on to, but every variety of imaginary notion.
* * * *
Oxygen deprivation is the first and foremost means for imagination to seize the helm.
* * * *
The masks of illusion wander all about you.
* * * *
How will you play your vanity today?
* * * *
Is that You, eating the ice cream, or you, off daydreaming, eating the ice cream?
* * * *
What, but unutterable delusion, makes anyone believe anyone can save them?
* * * *
Creators destroy, destroyers create; it is but quantum swirl, imagination’s twirl.
* * * *
Delusion is the inevitable result of desire and fear spinning their tale.
* * * *
The conditioning that nature-nurture molded, is what whips you into the clutches of imagination.
* * * *
The imaginary mind's attachment to the sensory feed, is what fuels the engine of imagination.
* * * *
Imagination is ever ready to step into awareness overtaken by inattention.
* * * *
Imagination is likely always going to be getting its taste; hopefully, not all the time.
* * * *
There is no world, no universe, but the one you every moment in imagination carry.
* * * *
Imagination plays You so.
* * * *
Awareness is awareness, no matter the state of consciousness.
* * * *
Imagination is the veil maker.
* * * *
Awareness attired in illusion.
* * * *
All metaphors are but mesmerizers of imagination, the usurper; they have no reality, whatsoever.
* * * *
If there is some deity that wants you to believe in it, how is its vanity, any more or less than yours?
* * * *
The joy of the figurative, is the dance, for which imagination has no end of thirst.
* * * *
Time is the movement of mind; awareness, the stillness through which it passes.
* * * *
What is human existence but a walkabout with imagination.
* * * *
Your story is what you imagine it.
* * * *
Always look forward to the moment, anywhere else is imagination playing its usurpation game.
* * * *
Could it get any more absurd? Well, yes.
* * * *
Other than stoking vanity, what is there to be recognized for, really?
* * * *
The moment, the now, the huff ‘n puff of the imaginary nature-nurture frame of reference, is all you are.
* * * *
You are not the illusory dreamtime, the playhouse, in which You wander every part.
* * * *
Extrapolate beyond the limits of imagination.
* * * *
Imaginary notions can be so insidious.
* * * *
Imagination ceaselessly makes every effort to steal the show, in every way literal and figurative allow.
* * * *
A stream of consciousness.
* * * *
Free will is an absurdity, to which relatively few awaken.
* * * *
Imagination is the great mesmerizer.
* * * *
The tabula rasa mind is pure awareness; untainted by any fixture of consciousness.
* * * *
Stream of consciousness, of imagination, of dreamtime, all the same thing, all the same mystery.
* * * *
Curse you, imagination.
* * * *
Time management, or timeless management, the dance between imagination and awareness.
* * * *
Is it everything you might have hoped?
* * * *
Fantasy may be much more fun than reality, but reality grows the food and pays the bills.
* * * *
Imagination is in the forebrain: corral it there to do YOUR bidding, not its imaginary version.
* * * *
Speculation studied, is always more sound than speculation assumed.
* * * *
Measuring illusion, where does it get you, really?
* * * *
Imagination is the whore of illusion.
* * * *
The mind-body is the quantum creator, generating a universe, as immense as imagination allows.
* * * *
Awareness is the witness, the intelligence, to which imagination subscribes.
* * * *
Life need not be as complex as vanity and greed would have us all believe.
* * * *
Imagination is the instigator of all vanity, of all drama.
* * * *
You are as limited as you imagine.
* * * *
You may not consciously witness the actual moment, but you can attend your moment.
* * * *
Prior to all creation, prior to all patterns, all forms, all functions, all plays of consciousness, you are.
* * * *
The limits of consciousness are the limits of the given container.
* * * *
The space-time continuum is a kaleidoscoping illusion.
* * * *
The world that imagination built, with the aid of oxygen deprivation.
* * * *
The mind that wants answers to everything, is a gateway to enlightenment, or insanity.
* * * *
Imagination is to awareness as clouds are to the sky.
* * * *
Everything is only as important, only as unimportant, as imagination makes it.
* * * *
It only matters to vanity.
* * * *
Yesterday and tomorrow are imaginary reference points.
* * * *
Except for the gurus’s vanity, why would it possibly matter if you have one or many?
* * * *
The lies that imagination built.
* * * *
If you are not attending to each and every breath, then imagination has you in its dreamy grip.
* * * *
What was just perceived by you, has always been known.
* * * *
Revenge is the spice of vanity.
* * * *
Who is not shackled to one memory or another?
* * * *
Memory is the harbor of all demons.
* * * *
Where is the mind that does not cling to memory, does not cling to imagination?
* * * *
The giving heart is not driven by vanity and greed.
* * * *
Matrix or imagination, chicken or egg.
* * * *
From quantum to chemical to biological, is how the dream rolls.
* * * *
The true revolution is freeing the awareness You are, from the imagination that has imprisoned it.
* * * *
Give up all notions, all that is imaginary, and you will find your Self in the clear space of awareness.
* * * *
Quantum is the magic carpet; imagination, the flying carpet; awareness, the innocent bystander.
* * * *
It is, and is not, as you imagine it to be.
* * * *
Personal memories are imagination’s go-to in its awareness-usurpation game.
* * * *
The sleight of hand of the quantum illusion is an every-moment, kaleidoscoping deception.
* * * *
Awareness is akin to an opaque sea of salt, an absolute, still clarity, prior to consciousness.
* * * *
Narcissistic and hedonism, where would vanity be, without them?
* * * *
Imagine, if you had to start learning everything, all over again.
* * * *
Imagination built its world, its universe, and it is up to you to reassert your Self.
* * * *
Damned imagination.
* * * *
To have no imaginary self-image, what would that be like?
* * * *
If it is imagined, it is not real.
* * * *
Best stay home if you do not want your vanity rung.
* * * *
A little humility, letting go the vanity-vanity show, makes for a more serene mind.
* * * *
What is future? What is past? What is forever? Without time, without space, without illusion?
* * * *
To stand alone, free and clear, of all imaginary notion, is not for all.
* * * *
How can anyone claim to know anything, really? Absurdity notwithstanding.
* * * *
Is there really anything left to take seriously, absurdity reigns, why are you not rolling in the aisles?
* * * *
Surf the absurdity.
* * * *
To truly not care, is not something that needs imagining.
* * * *
All deities are fabrications that minds together build into cult fictions.
* * * *
Why are you not rolling-in-the-aisles at all the absurdity?
* * * *
All memories, all perceptions, are equal players on the neuron trail.
* * * *
Cult fiction.
* * * *
Anything taken over by a group mind is destined to achieve great acclaim in the absurdity column.
* * * *
Humankind must surely be the most absurd species Mother Nature has ever created.
* * * *
Free your Self of all encumbrances, at least the imaginary versions.
* * * *
Humility is a lot less about your imaginary self.
* * * *
A mystery, engaged in a dream.
* * * *
Let imagination race on ahead; you will be there when it arrives.
* * * *
A certain amount of wit is required to harness the absurdity riding the wave of irony and paradox.
* * * *
Irony and paradox go especially well with healthy helpings of absurdity.
* * * *
We are all blobs with airs; what’s vanity for, if not to be unfurled?
* * * *
You are witness to the infinity of absurdity.
* * * *
If there is division or notion out and about, you are still aways from home-sweet-home.
* * * *
In forgetting yourself, so goes any concern, that ‘others’ remember a ‘you’, that was but a dream.
* * * *
The whirlwind of imagination leaves no mind untouched.
* * * *
Absurdity is very adept at playing sides and middles against themselves in permutations beyond counting.
* * * *
Hard to imagine how that design managed to somehow survive and reproduce since the pool of inception.
* * * *
There is no meaning and purpose but what the usurper, imagination, arbitrarily concocts.
* * * *
Stop imagining your Self into something You are not, never were, will never be.
* * * *
What is freedom but the absence of attachment to illusion.
* * * *
Judge, and you will be judged, mostly by your imaginary self.
* * * *
Consciousness, coupled with instinct, is insatiable.
* * * *
There is no yoke, no burden, but the one you choose to imagine.
* * * *
Hope springs delusional.
* * * *
How vain was that?!
* * * *
Illusion delusion is the answer to why any one blob is favored over another.
* * * *
Is a jellyfish any more or less vain?
* * * *
Vain globules of protoplasm.
* * * *
The conscious witness is a rare breed.
* * * *
Your consciousness is unique to you, your awareness, common to all.
* * * *
Existence is nothing more than sensory illusion stoked by imaginary context.
* * * *
Go spew your delusions elsewhere, por favor.
* * * *
Irony and paradox are as boundless as absurdity allows.
* * * *
History only carries weight as long as imagination deigns it so.
* * * *
Another trip down Vanity Lane
* * * *
Riding the blade of illusion.
* * * *
Hope is dead, long live hope.
* * * *
Imagine all the history you will never know.
* * * *
And there you were, hoping for enlightened leadership.
* * * *
Another day in the dream that quantum built.
* * * *
There are many faces to absurdity.
* * * *
A remarkable dream, but a dream nonetheless.
* * * *
Could a fish be any more slippery than imagination?
* * * *
The dream, the illusion, only seems real in the given moment.
* * * *
To consider duality more than a concept devised by human vanity, is as absurd as absurd gets.
* * * *
Birth is the first illusion, and death, the last.
* * * *
Imagine the Darwinian peace of Eden before the fruit of imagination was plucked.
* * * *
Arguing whether or not some deity on high created this dreamtime, is so yawn.
* * * *
When did you first start feeling sorry for your imaginary self?
* * * *
The world is in your head in whatever way you allow imagination to play it, or not.
* * * *
History is the crockpot of imagination.
* * * *
Nothing you imagine is ultimately real.
* * * *
The you, you imagine real, is not, was not, will never be, the You, prior to consciousness.
* * * *
Imagination is always chasing around after reality.
* * * *
We all hope it will not happen in our lifetimes.
* * * *
All history boils down to vanity and greed, and the sea of desire and fear in which they tirelessly swim.
* * * *
High scores in the vanity column.
* * * *
It would be just your luck to be that vain.
* * * *
If you think life is monotonous, imagine eternity.
* * * *
Different perceptions of most everything do not for an elephant make.
* * * *
Everyone has an appointment with destiny, which only imagination differentiates.
* * * *
The maelstrom of imagination rolls on and on with impunity, through the oblivion of awareness.
* * * *
Far easier to drift off into some imaginary filament, than it is to simply take a mindful breath.
* * * *
Some require a fiefdom to prove their worth, to slake their greed, to play their vanity.
* * * *
No dearth of absurdity in every arena.
* * * *
Imagination entices each into its theater it every way they can imagine.
* * * *
Consciousness, a.k.a. imagination, is far too ephemeral to last long in eternity.
* * * *
Imagination is having a field day.
* * * *
Discern the agonies and ecstasies in the memories that shaped who you pretend to be.
* * * *
The challenge is getting through this dreamtime without making it personal, without taking it personal.
* * * *
Challenging to remember to be awake all the time; delusion is a loud clarion in every human sojourn.
* * * *
Hard for vanity to understand why the world is not rushing to your door.
* * * *
Awareness can only, with great effort, regain control from the usurper, imagination.
* * * *
Is the world you dream anything but a pacifier?
* * * *
All fates are imagined.
* * * *
Imagination, only as real as the moment in which it appears.
* * * *
Are you a pretender, pretending to be you? Or an attender, being You?
* * * *
Root for awareness; bet on imagination.
* * * *
Clear or dim, vague perceptions are all you have, to cling to the life, you imagine you have lived.
* * *
You are imagination, imagining this mind-body, this slab of meat, real and important.
* * * *
The you, You imagine, is not, was not, will never be, You.
* * * *
Everything is connected, except human consciousness.
* * * *
The dream of consciousness is always after the fact.
* * * *
Without imagination, who-what-when-where-why-how are you?
* * * *
As pilot fish are to sharks, imagination is to awareness.
* * * *
Imagination is the Genie let out of Pandora’s Box.
* * * *
Imagination is the elephant in the middle of the room.
* * * *
Imagination is the what the Seven Blind Men cannot see.
* * * *
Only through imagination is there the known.
* * * *
Only in imagination does the flag move.
* * * *
Imagination has an exceedingly long rap sheet, of difficulty leaving well enough alone.
* * * *
The real You, the awareness You, is not, has never been, will never be, the imagined you.
* * * *
Imagination is no different than any opportunist, any parasite, any soul-sucker.
* * * *
All conflicts are born of differences of imaginary proportion.
* * * *
If you believe your imagination has any reality, whatsoever, you are a prisoner of its dream.
* * * *
Everything is done and gone as soon as it happens, no matter how you in imagination cling.
* * * *
Approach imagination as you would any adversary in the arena.
* * * *
What is that deep sorrow that haunts so many, but the schism between imaginary self and absolute Self.
* * * *
There is no world, no cosmos, no dream, whatsoever, but the one you imagine right now.
* * * *
Imagination knows nothing but what it formulates; of the unknown it can only speculate.
* * * *
How fortunate you are if you feel blessed by your dream.
* * * *
History is tethered to imagination, and imagination is only as real as you imagine.
* * * *
Score: … Vanity and Greed, Everything … Guardianship, Zip.
* * * *
Words can imprison, words can free, how they are used, how they are perceived, is the key.
* * * *
Odds are, imagination has the better of you, of all our kind, for whatever dreamtime remains.
* * * *
This, too, has been written by the whim of imagination.
* * * *
Another pretender to the throne.
* * * *
Imagination has got the better of you, yet again.
* * * *
Greed is vanity spelled backwards.
* * * *
You dance with others to appease your vanity, oftentimes by stoking theirs.
* * * *
Imagination is only as real as you imagine.
* * * *
To give speculation about unanswerable questions, any weight at all, is unutterably meaningless.
* * * *
There will always be mirages to entice you, sway you, every imaginable way.
* * * *
There goes that four-letter H-word, hope, flitting about willy-nilly again.
* * * *
Will there ever be an end to the ways we measure this quantum illusion?
* * * *
How many zeros to the right, how many to the left, will we ever tire of imagining?
* * * *
What an absurd joke, vanity.
* * * *
The leap of faith is the end of imagination.
* * * *
Awareness has no attributes to measure; to even call it infinite or infinitesimal is absurd.
* * * *
Any fallacy, any delusion, any lie, can only usurp the truth in undiscerning minds.
* * * *
Who does not long to be free of all the absurdities to which all minds play a part?
* * * *
For vanity’s sake.
* * * *
Just a dream, nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
Vanity is nothing more than the insistent huff and puff of imagination.
* * * *
Imagine how dark this world was, from a satellite’s nighttime view, before electricity lit it up.
* * * *
So full, so empty, an imaginary destiny plays out.
* * * *
One speculation is as good as another.
* * * *
What can reincarnate in the unborn-undying timeless awareness, but figments of imagination?
* * * *
Prior to consciousness, prior to imagination, prior to quantum, prior to om, you are.
* * * *
All creation, all art, is the manipulation of quantum by imagination.
* * * *
How else should-could-would the mystery, the awareness, explore its Self, but through illusion.
* * * *
What is the body but crunch and goo, packaged in flesh, cloaked in every manner of vanity.
* * * *
Could it be, the mystery is really just an eccentric scientist of the Hollywood fiction genre?
* * * *
What is a conversation but a window into your Self in another dream.
* * * *
Imagination has held awareness hostage since who can more than speculate how long ago?
* * * *
What is a life, what is memory, but a rolodex of perceptions.
* * * *
Witnesses all, some conscious, some not.
* * * *
Hope is a plea to an imaginary friend, not an option in the dream we call real.
* * * *
Happiness is embracing your sensory dreamtime as best you can, as best you feel.
* * * *
So, you really believe you exist as more than an imaginary concoction.
* * * *
Hope is not an option.
* * * *
If time and space were real, you would not need imagination to travel it.
* * * *
Hope holds no water, gathers no sheaves; it is but a toothless sheep grazing in lethargic minds.
* * * *
Consciousness gives awareness focus; it does not control it in any way imaginable.
* * * *
What dreams are, what dreams have been, what dreams are yet to come, only awareness knows.
* * * *
Another day of pride barreling through its imaginary dreamtime.
* * * *
Imagination’s infinitely multi-faceted spectrum is the power of the mystery.
* * * *
Objectivity is an unachievable ideal, an absurd myth.
* * * *
Cathedrals, stone or glass, are absurdly, redundantly passé.
* * * *
Science ever seeks the truth of the quantum illusion; beyond the veil, there is no knowing.
* * * *
You are the first and last historian in your dream.
* * * *
How can the indivisible quantum matrix ever be tainted by imagination.
* * * *
History is an ever-morphing free-for-all locked in the whims of imagination.
* * * *
History’s point and purpose is the continuity of imagination, and all the drama it entertains.
* * * *
Every life form is a witness in its own realm, its own niche; few are conscious of it.
* * * *
Ain’t speculation fun?
* * * *
We are all blends of imagination come before.
* * * *
Endure the illusion until nothing feeds you.
* * * *
Imagination toying with itself.
* * * *
What is the human paradigm but the charade of memory.
* * * *
Real is whatever you imagine real.
* * * *
Memory is your personal theater, your personal world, your personal universe.
* * * *
You are but a bubble of imagination.
* * * *
And that equation, that concept, that sound, also worked … Imagine that.
* * * *
Your entire life is nothing more than make-believe.
* * * *
That ship has sailed well beyond all hope, into a vast sea of agony and despair.
* * * *
Embrace the absurdity, Grasshopper.
* * * *
Consciously or unconsciously, you have done nothing your entire existence.
* * * *
Other than the human paradigm, Nature is anything but absurd.
* * * *
It all seemed so real at the time, but did it ever really happen, this dream?
* * * *
Art is the mystery to which imagination aspires.
* * * *
Stilled consciousness bares the presence of awareness.
* * * *
God is whatever totality is; not some imaginary, absurdly idolatrous deity.
* * * *
It is the imaginary mind-body that is, not you.
* * * *
What philosopher does not wonder at the absurdity of his/her life’s work?
* * * *
How can the unseen, how can the unknown, ever be duplicated by imagination?
* * * *
How can vanity ever embrace oblivion?
* * * *
The answer lies somewhere between absurd and insane.
* * * *
Ethics: Neutered, sterile, empty, absurd,
* * * *
Only imagination knows.
* * * *
Whether it is complicated or simple depends how your imagination chooses to see it.
* * * *
A game rigged for delusion.
* * * *
The scars of imagination are imaginary.
* * * *
What house of cards is not built of vanity and greed?
* * * *
What’s really going on? is a question only speculation has ever answered.
* * * *
If you do not know, why pretend you do?
* * * *
It is the imaginary you that dreads death, the imaginary you that wants to live forever.
* * * *
The world that imagination built.
* * * *
The level of absurdity into which we are descending is sadly hilarious.
* * * *
Vanity for vanity’s sake.
* * * *
As if any religion, any belief, any creed, any dogma, any conviction, is required.
* * * *
Time is a function of imagination; awareness, a function of eternity.
* * * *
Every moment you are born and die; only in imagination do you think you live.
* * * *
Isn’t it mystery enough without imagining all things absurd?
* * * *
Make-believe can never be real; it is all make-believe, an epoch of imaginary proportion.
* * * *
The personal mind is an imaginary creation; the impersonal mind, creation its Self.
* * * *
It is imagination from which the awareness you are must detach.
* * * *
What is the human paradigm but the ceaseless tumbling of imaginary assumptions.
* * * *
Even every imaginable defense cannot deter the blade’s eventual arrival.
* * * *
There will always be one herd or another to embrace any given absurdity.
* * * *
Any quantum divide is but an imaginary demarcation.
* * * *
The past is only reference; the future, only hope; only the moment is real, and not.
* * * *
How can good and evil exist anywhere but imagination?
* * * *
Memory can be a Quixotic endeavor.
* * * *
Death is the inevitable outcome of every existence; no need for hope nor faith nor creed.
* * * *
Time and space are constructs of the imaginary mind, steeped in mystery.
* * * *
You do not know, you will never know, how all this came to be; why pretend to?
* * * *
Imagination’s turf is a quantum matrix of sensory proportion.
* * * *
Imagining one god or many, is perhaps the greatest delusion.
* * * *
Everything is imagined; how accurate the imagination is the question.
* * * *
Make-believe, a worldwide game of make-believe.
* * * *
Why trust anyone else’s perception more than your own?
* * * *
Through attention to the awareness, you wrest your mind from its imaginary yoke.
* * * *
What is it about vanity that makes it imagine any other will truly care one way or another?
* * * *
It is imagination that makes all dimensions seem real.
* * * *
All that dies is a figment of imagination.
* * * *
Why pretend?
* * * *
Without imagination, did anything ever really happen?
* * * *
A big game of pretend.
* * * *
Another memory swept up in the river of time.
* * * *
Dream weaver, dream cleaver.
* * * *
Who is the perceiver but the one in all.
* * * *
Is imagination anything more than distraction from the moment?
* * * *
What is this vat of flesh and bones but an imaginary prison of limitation.
* * * *
Frame of reference, frame of imagination.
* * * *
The prison of imagination wakes up to another day.
* * * *
An imaginary mind, an imaginary life, an imaginary tale.
* * * *
Do not be bound, do not be limited, by the part you imagine.
Breadcrumbs
I am alone.
I have always been alone.
I was born alone, I live alone, I will die alone.
There has never been even one moment when I was not alone,
When I was not the pure awareness, when I was not the unborn-undying moment.
It is a wondrous state, given over at times, to many worldly distractions, but ever alone, nonetheless.
How the many others that come or go, that think of me, is utterly inconsequential.
And how I discern them, is but as clouds drifting across a sky.
There is no meaning, no purpose, no raison d'être,
But what the imagination imagines,
In all its many imaginings.
It is but a dream.
I, alone, am.
* * * *
These writings are an offering, a gift, to the eternal life within all creation.
Am I the delusional one for spouting all these thoughts? Or you, for not discerning it?
Or perhaps both, for ever having engaged in this fantastical, utterly improbable dreamtime, at all.
* * * *
Imagine the billions of trips around the sun it took for me to be here writing this.
* * * *
I am not Krishna, nor Lao Tzu, nor Buddha, nor Jesus,
Nor any other mythological figure born of the human paradigm.
I am Michael, lord and master of this most-sanctified dreamtime mystery.
* * * *
And what did you, Pilgrim, perchance imagine a god-mind would be,
If not capable of journeying any and every way it was disposed?
I have embraced nothingness since it first became apparent.
The specter of death has ever been a constant companion.
So, Fate, do what you will, I stand ready to greet you.
* * * *
The biographical information is for those who still suckle the illusion.
* * * *
Reading these aphoristic ditties as acutely as possible,
As if they were being spoken aloud, with pauses and inflections,
Perhaps even several times, is the best way to imbibe their fullest meaning.
It is more than a little improbable anyone will ever read them all,
And not you, either, unless you are as absurdly mad,
As the hatter that imagined them into time.
* * * *
Long ago accomplished my unplanned mission; everything since has been layers of icing.
* * * *
There is nothing left in this dream world that I cannot die without seeing or doing.
* * * *
Could probably jot down just about anything I please,
In this, for-all-historical-impact-practical-purpose, largely unread manifesto.
Confess to every form of murder and mayhem, violation and pillage, I may, or may not, have done.
And more than likely, few, if any, would ever read or hear, much less imagine it.
And perchance they did, how many would not shrug their shoulders,
And quickly move on to the next scandalous headline,
In this absurd world full of horror galore.
* * * *
This soliloquy is as whole a metaphorical elephant, as this lingual frame of reference can muster.
I being but one of who-knows-how-many scribes expounding the greatest revelation.
Whose handiworks will persevere in the ever-shifting dunes of dreamtime,
Will perhaps be referenced as some future historian’s footnote,
Or perhaps, stacked with other esoteric works, on some obscure bookshelf.
Assuming humankind even survives long enough for history to be available for viewing.
* * * *
These writings are as imaginary as everything else.
They might be absurd, if I was the only one saying it.
* * * *
To our mother, scarred and tortured in every way imaginable; I herein give voice.
* * * *
The frame of reference from whence this work comes,
Has many facets from its walkabout with imagination.
* * * *
Forever is an imaginary state of time born of mind.
* * * *
If there is some deity that wants me to believe in it, how is its vanity, any more or less than mine?
* * * *
Without the dream, without the other, what could You experience, what could You know?
* * * *
Imagination cannot root in the stillness of awareness.
* * * *
There is only now; all then’s and when’s are imaginary.
* * * *
There is no way could I have lived a domesticated existence,
Of commitment and compromise and responsibility and indebtedness.
In giving my dream over to the mystery, in wandering the path of least resistance,
I may well have experienced, may well have possessed, more than all my ancestors combined.
I may well be the wealthiest, freest microorganism, this Petri dish world has ever seen.
And the only one who has witnessed it, in the way these many pages describe.
And despite all the virtuous intentions, they will not change a thing,
And neither the Reaper, nor the Ferryman, will know, or care.
* * * *
A stream of consciousness.
* * * *
Curse you, imagination.
* * * *
The world ain’t the better place I would have hoped,
So, I guess my mission failed, as So It Goes predicted.
* * * *
How can the mystery be anything less than what I,
In all my limitations, all my shortcomings, herein over and over expound?
How could it truly ever be any man-imagined, dualistic invention-notion-concoction, heretofore devised?
That humankind clings to all its idolatries when the truth of awareness is so Self-evident.
Is an irony permeated by paradox, a paradox permeated by irony,
That will boggle me to my last dying wheeze.
* * * *
Am I really that cynical? Or just a truth-speaker to delusion?
* * * *
What I did not see or do, I witnessed others seeing or doing,
Or, as imagination so well allows, I wandered the mind, as times and moods inclined.
No need to keep gorging on and on; I am plenty-full enough.
* * * *
I have met many, many, good, decent spirits – many quite twisted – all muses to this never-ending labor.
Enough spirits to make up for the most-foul sort, whose self-absorbed machinations,
Create so much unnecessary harshness in this dreamtime.
Yes, yes, they can read it, or maybe try to, but do not even for a split-moment,
Think I would ever turn my back on them, or, gods preserve me, ever allow them access to the treasury.
* * * *
I have studied many writings, many philosophies,
But I have never joined any so-called spiritual groups.
I have never much cared for allowing any collective mindset,
To orchestrate, or to usurp in any meaningful way,
What are my choices, and mine, alone.
A solo act, from the get-go.
And to the best, my ability allows,
I hopefully have not laden the unknowable future,
And anyone draw to awaken, with anything less than total veracity.
From a laptop, I opine all seekers to sally forth through as little muddle as possible.
Eschew all cultures, traditions, tribal mindsets, groupthinks, that ever strive to own You, in all or part.
* * * *
There was a moment, when I first began scratching ditties on napkins in 1989, I threw a few away.
For some reason, long out of range of memory, they were a bit too much – even for me, he now laughed.
It was perhaps one of the many moments of choosing; those many moments, wherein fate calls.
The fork in the path, where I have always indulged my Self first, in the feast less eaten.
So, as you see, I did not tarry away from the sword, nor thoughts upon scraps.
And what is it all, but an homage to You, should you happen upon it.
* * * *
Yet another moment this memory set has seen and done, seemingly times beyond counting.
* * * *
Am absurd enough on my own, without having a psychotic world knocking at my door.
* * * *
If I never crossed paths with another woman in this dream, including family, tranquility would reign.
And though the last fragments of obligation, is how I am playing it with what family remains,
If I was starting out all over again, I think I would fly from the nest, and never return.
* * * *
“No friggin’ way am I going back to that insane asylum!”
Jesus cried out, when he was told by Daddy it was time for the sequel,
So, as often happens, the ne’re-do-well, who did not show up for the board meeting,
Is named by the chair, to suit up, sally out, and try again to awaken the masses from their slumber.
Thank the mystery, that he was not allotted any absurdities to mesmerize the sheeples anew,
Nor stand up before awed throngs, reciting the Lord’s Prayer through a microphone,
And, Jesus, yes, you guessed it, he is off diddling Mary; no, not the mother.
Yup, right again, Daddy is with Mommy, over in the bouncy cloud.
* * * *
If you cannot peruse these thoughts,
Without weariness, without fight-or-flight reaction,
Then they are not for you, at least not at this point in your dreamtime.
* * * *
Imagination has written me off, as ‘no fun.’
* * * *
I may be mistaken about all this, but do not see how.
In every way truth can be comprehended: from rational to irrational,
From to realistic to delusional, from absolute to relative, from infinite to infinitesimal,
From sensible to absurd, from ironic to paradoxical, from white to black,
It all melds into a unified certainty that cannot be undone.
It is this acuity, both deliberated and intuited,
That doubts all other contenders.
* * * *
I only sound somewhat intelligent, somewhat linguistic, somewhat sage-worthy.
There has been a great deal foolishness and stupidity and vanity, gone through this dreamy mill,
To toss so many thoughts into a space-time, I can never more than imagine.
Things that none but I, would ever even bother to know.
And even I, were there any choice.
* * * *
What am I but imagination’s puppet whore?
I have given in, to, and walked away, from, so many amusements.
I have been harbor to every narcissistic notion, every hedonistic impulse, that low-fruited into easy reach.
What you now leisurely leaf through, is the dissertation, the legacy, of this nomadic existence.
What will imagination do with her philosophical tour de force, her magnum opus?
Alas, that is a future that I can never more than speculate, more than wonder.
And like a tabby toying with an all-but-dead mouse, she appears not done with me.
For moi, it is less about it ever being read, than having been witness to the entire oeuvre.
Many of these thoughts may be wrong, in whole or part, but I am as right as this vision allows.
And in this time, and probably all before, opinion means as much or more than fact, in too many a mind.
* * * *
These thoughts are whatever comes out, whatever chances out,
In the timeless free-thinking of this ever-streaming consciousness.
There is no plan, and I am but a voice, one of many, assigned this task.
It was not sought, it was not requested, at any point in time.
It began without fanfare, and it will end when it ends.
One friend, a classical music critic, called me
The Thomas Wolfe of lyrical aphorisms.
He will likely remain far more read.
* * * *
To imagination, I am something of a turncoat, a traitor, a deserter, a renegade,
But it has thus far allowed it, and even given it wings, of sorts.
Sometime to irritate its own mesmerized audience.
What will be done with this Socrates?
Where’s the hemlock?
* * * *
What a thing to witness such a cataclysmic unfolding in the history of this garden orb.
With or without life on board, it will spin along until, eventually,
The mystery sees fit to consume it entirely,
And then, presumably, speculatively, spit out something new,
Assuming, of course, that some form of imaginary perception is there to witness it.
* * * *
And there I was, hoping for enlightened leadership.
* * * *
What a thing it is, to have been given the opportunity,
To consciously witness the mystery so intimately.
* * * *
If you, for even a second, think I am not be as vain and greedy, as any other monkey-mind, think again.
Though a constant wordsmith, I dwell in the same monkey-mind as all others.
The only difference would be in the pondering.
And if you If you think I asked for this, think again on that, as well.
* * * *
Regarding these many thoughts, they are how I see the mystery.
They are my response to the infinity of vagaries in this quantum theater,
As directly and clearly and poignantly articulated, as this frame of reference allows.
As this astonishing dream, this dumbfounding dream, seems to have been programmed to do.
To daily, with Sisyphean effort, push the boulder up the mountain, is not the chore many would think it.
As Camus concluded in his Myth of Sisyphus essay: Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity
That negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well.
This universe, henceforth without a master, seems to him neither sterile nor futile.
Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, n itself forms a world.
The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
* * * *
Is it really some ‘me’, some ‘myself’, some ‘I’, who is reading this?
Or is this sense of ‘me’ really nothing more than programmed imagination?
Imagination shrouding the awareness timelessly witnessing this sensory-mind dream.
The awareness eternally witnessing dreamtimes in all sentient beings in which mystery harbors.
What is there to say, but that these musings have all willy-nilly bubbled into the abyss of this mind’s eye,
And then step-by-step morphed from that emptiness, to paper to screen to world-wide web.
Oh, that I could somehow see how they play out in the epoch decline and fall,
That all existence will endure through the dreamtime ahead.
I would hazard a guess that most writers,
Most artists, most creators, of any and all persuasions,
Feel much the same as they watch their creations drift into a future-past
They cannot more than in imagination play out, all the twists, all the turns, of possibility.
* * * *
Yeah, that guy over there, at the corner table.
The one with the MacBook Pro and Starbucks mug.
Yeah, that’s me, or so I pretend, as the given moment calls.
* * * *
Hold the applause, hold the titles, hold the dogma, hold the cultists, hold the vanity.
* * * *
It would be just my luck to be that vain.
* * * *
Yet another set of hieroglyphs, of which relatively few will ever even hear, much less begin, to read.
In retrospect, it has always seemed less like it is me scribbling and digitalizing these thoughts,
Than it is just being open enough for them to make their way through this sack of goo.
Hopefully, no one makes too much of this life or persona, in whatever happens,
Or does not happen, with this labyrinth, awash with ditties of every hew and skew.
* * * *
Imagination entices me to play its game,
By continually bubbling up aphorism after aphorism.
It is an object lesson in the futility of even for a moment wondering,
Whether or not awareness in human form, can ever change course in any profound way.
Can ever be free of the occupier, consciousness, and its imaginary theater, permeated by vanity and greed.
A prison guard who taunts me every moment, with every conceivable absurdity.
* * * *
Hard for vanity to understand why the world is not rushing to my door.
* * * *
Like all writing scribed in previous times, this edifice of scribblings will need
At least several hundred years to percolate into whatever fate is in store.
Whether or not, what Mother Nature is brewing this every moment,
Will allow that much time, is the stuff of dystopian nightmares,
To which imaginary time machines give imaginary access.
* * * *
I am not here to save you; I am here to destroy you, whoever you imagine yourself to be.
* * * *
Playing in this touchy-feely sandbox does not mean I am not entirely alone all the while.
That all others are but apparitions, dancing about all around me,
In a magical holodeck of quantum design.
Perfectly choreographed by the sensory mind,
In all its quantum-chemical-electrical-biological glory.
It may be delusional, but it is a madness that makes it tolerable.
* * * *
I root for awareness; but bet on imagination.
* * * *
These writings are entirely stream of consciousness.
As haphazard as haphazard can be in this patterned theater of the absurd.
Far, far, more than enough, to befuddle those who will never begin to discern, never begin to comprehend,
The unfathomable, ineffable, indivisible mystery, they every moment are.
* * * *
A gift to the dream, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
Have wandered many camps in this dream, but none ever drew me enough to spend an entire lifetime,
Until the tail end of the 80’s, at the age of 36, when thoughts began coming, one after another.
And so, this imaginary destiny finally took on a clarity, something of a perpetual wave,
One that appears not to be crashing for as long as ‘so far’ is fated to endure.
And even if it does crash, the deed is done, and done well enough.
The only question is whether or not it will find some legs,
And saunter on into some telling role in the dreamtime to come.
But there are far too many stacks and stacks of lost and forgotten writings,
In every variety of used book store, library book sale, and garage sale, to plan a party.
* * * *
I serve the awareness, and the matrix, whose quantum magic gives us the illusion of space and time.
* * * *
Have always just accepted and done whatever the dream offered.
Never had an agenda, never had a dog in the fight, never had a raison d'etre.
Have always just been here now, watching the show, doing whatever needed to be done,
And in the second half of this temporal existence, it has been about writing whatever comes to mind.
* * * *
I might let this mind, this imagination wander,
Every light and dark nook and cranny imagination allows,
But there are a wide range of boundaries to what I would actually do.
There are some things that I would even take my own life,
Before they would ever happen by these hands.
* * * *
I am as pride-filled as any other human; we are all the same imaginary notion.
* * * *
This, too, has been written by the whim of imagination.
* * * *
Story-telling is a talent, a skillset, that finds no perch in this mind.
All that comes to this dreamer are aphorisms, and maybe a few anecdotes.
Any reader well-versed in literature, would set down any attempt within minutes,
Which enough already do with this philosophical Winchester House as it is.
* * * *
This could not have been written were I not still tangoing with vanity.
* * * *
I dance with you to appease my vanity, oftentimes by stoking yours.
* * * *
It took a lot of vanity to write this; I am not as free as actual death will take it.
* * * *
So much already said, already written,
Across all times, across all spaces, come and gone before.
How can this life work ever be known, ever have any meaningful impact?
How can the species ever change its evolutionary context, its genomically induced patterning?
How can a species compelled, bound, to a narcissistic-hedonistic paradigm,
Ever hope to survive a universe that has never cared
About anything ever created?
* * * *
Fingers dancing away on the keyboards of a couple Apple MacBook Pro laptops.
Alone, relatively free of the constraints of any distracting obligations to any individual, any group,
I freely contemplate, freely explore, freely scrutinize, anything that wanders into mind.
This is an opus – as earnest, as sincere, as serious – as this dreamer can muster.
Be sure not make it about me, for I am you in but another reverie.
* * * *
Nothing needs be concealed.
I have played the gamut as mindlessly as any.
If I have not done it, I saw it done, or thought about doing it.
Taking the Red Pill, the no-stone-unturned dream, is not one many will choose.
How did it happen, that this small-town farm boy, wandered aimlessly down a barely-recalled trail?
It is a long and vague and tedious narrative, that reads as any plebeian fare,
Relatively unexceptional to its ever-present core.
* * * *
Who but me will ever read all this silliness?
The things we do with our lives.
Absurdity reigns.
* * * *
This is what I was born to do; hopefully, this work will not be lost, or worse, usurped.
* * * *
I writes it the way I sees it
If I am wrong (which I only rarely am),
You will find me in your imaginary fire and brimstone,
Where only the most interesting, most entertaining, folk are allowed.
* * * *
I am not immune to vanity and corruption, so do not give me the keys to the world.
Without checks and balances, I would probably mess things up as badly as anybody.
* * * *
The eternal philosopher, historian, anthropologist, scientist, mathematician,
And any other academic arenas this mind was drawn to reconnoiter,
All together, pervade the ever-expanding frame of reference.
So full, so empty, an imaginary destiny plays out.
* * * *
A quixotic quantum manifesto, very much indeed.
My itty-bitty part in the grand théâtre of dreamtime.
My little contribution to the grand théâtre of dreamtime.
My little celebration of the grand théâtre of dreamtime.
My little salutation to the grand théâtre of dreamtime.
* * * *
What can I say, it is the way imagination larks about in this wee brain.
* * * *
As I do not find it worth a pauper’s pittance,
And both specifically and generally,
Do not hold out much hope for anything,
I ask any who have answer, even speculation,
What hope can there ever be in a four-letter word?
* * * *
Just sitting in one here or there or another, likely with a mug of coffee, or two or three,
At one table or couch or another, tap-tap-tapping away at the keyboard,
Any and every gyration of imagination that comes to mind,
All dancing away on the screen above it.
Word processing, with all its trappings, gotta love it.
* * * *
You can say it better? Have at it, have fun, vanity is all.
* * * *
Spreading my word, one conversation, one email, one website business card, at a time.
Under the radar, to be sure, and no sign it is finding any wings at this writing.
For me to believe it might meaningfully change the human paradigm,
Requires a level of vanity to which I endeavor not to succumb.
As the human species is not even close to waking up in any meaningful way,
Far easier to continue anonymously enjoying the writing and posting, and depart content.
* * * *
With so little audience to mold my ways and means,
I can dam-the-torpedoes. say and do. whatever I friggin’ please,
As often as I may choose, and in as many ways as I can darned-well imagine.
Whoever might wish to stop or contain me, is pretty much way too late.
Like it or no, history has me in its talons, to what end, I know not.
Nor do I care to do more than pipedream any and all ripples,
From complete and utter obscurity, to unending acclaim.
“Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.” saith the Preacher.
* * * *
They are like puzzle pieces that come together so easily.
A most pleasant way to pass, to pipedream, the dreaming.
* * * *
If parts of this body of work are someday translated into other languages,
Who can ever truly know whether or not the interpretations of the sundry frames of reference,
Are even remotely close to what was intended, envisioned, by this quantum mind,
In the context of the original window of the dream called time.
Beware all translations; especially your own.
* * * *
Imagine the Grecian orators of old, in their robes,
Speaking to forums filled with critical minds,
Perceiving the candor in every thought.
* * * *
Imagination toying with itself.
* * * *
How this philosophical work has scribed itself in the second half of this dreamtime,
Has been a beyond-all-pales, unanticipated, unsought, uninvited, please-no-not-me, sort of destiny.
What a remarkable expedition to be fashioned into a herald of this ineffable mystery.
Yet another thinker leaving a long and winding trail of breadcrumbs,
All pointing to the unknowable within and without.
* * * *
What do I care if there is but meager audience for these many thoughts?
I have imagined and written, read and re-read. each and every one, some many, many times.
That, coupled with the appreciation of those who have gleaned my intent,
Is applause enough for this illusory mind’s vanity.
* * * *
A dream, filled with nightmares, that I would never voluntarily repeat.
* * * *
I am free to say whatever I please in these digitalized pages.
What power I have in my imaginary realm.
Mwahahahahaha …
The end of the universe is nigh.
* * * *
Have long given up in any way-shape-form imagining that humankind
Will ever evolve into caretakers, guardians, custodians, protectors, defenders,
Sentinels, stewards, partners, lovers, of the natural world, the Great Mother, that bore it.
* * * *
What philosopher does not wonder at the absurdity of his/her life’s work?
* * * *
‘Tis often I wonder what others might think, what others might say, about these thoughts.
What praises and curses and ho-hums would they, and the bully critics, cultivate,
Were they to peruse and ponder to some serious degree, a few lines or so.
Makes me laugh plenty ha-ha hard and long, imagining the din.
* * * *
The entire human existence has been imagined from the Darwinian get-go.
The Corollaries of Yaj Ekim
Jesus on Prophets (Mark 6:1-6):
Jesus observed that "Prophets are not without honour,
except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house."
Yaj Ekim’s Corollary:
Good way to hide out, stay anonymous, avoid the bothers of any variety of vain notion.
* * * *
Alexander Pope’s ‘An Essay on Man’:
Hope spring eternal.
Yaj Ekim’s Corollary:
Hope springs delusional.
* * * *
Genesis 1:27
In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.
Yaj Ekim’s Corollary:
You are imagination, imagining this mind-body, this slab of meat, real.
Possible Last Words & Epitaphs
Surf the absurdity
* * * *
The final illusion
* * * *
All fates are imagined
* * * *
Toying With Imagination
* * * *
The last vanity
* * * *
Only the dead know the end to absurdity
Michael’s Rabbit Hole
Imagination
Imagination, creator of all that is nothing more than quantum illusion.
Imagination, creator of all that has never been anything more than quantum illusion.
Imagination, creator of all that will never be anything more than quantum illusion.
Imagination, only as material as the sensory-born illusion of the given moment.
Will It Really Matter?
Will it really matter in one second?
Will it really matter in ten seconds?
Will it really matter in one minute?
Will it really matter in one hour?
Will it really matter in one day?
Will it really matter in one week?
Will it really matter in one month?
Will it really matter in six months?
Will it really matter in one year?
Will it really matter in two years?
Will it really matter in five years?
Will it really matter in ten years?
Will it really matter in twenty years?
Will it really matter in one hundred years?
Will it really matter in five hundred years?
Will it really matter in one thousand years?
Will it really matter in ten thousand years?
Will it really matter in twenty thousand years?
Will it really matter in one hundred thousand years?
Will it really matter in one million years?
Will it really matter in ten million years?
Will it really matter in one hundred million years?
Will it really matter in one billion years?
Will it really matter in ten billion years?
Will it really matter in one trillion years?
Will it really matter in one gazillion years?
Did it really ever matter at all?
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.
The Mind Is, the Mind Is Not
The mind is, the mind is not, a dream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a delusion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a habit.
The mind is, the mind is not, a truth.
The mind is, the mind is not, a practice.
The mind is, the mind is not, a trance.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fixation.
The mind is, the mind is not, an obsession.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fondness.
The mind is, the mind is not, a tendency.
The mind is, the mind is not, a bent.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fabrication.
The mind is, the mind is not, a lie.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pretense.
The mind is, the mind is not, a chameleon.
The mind is, the mind is not, a hope.
The mind is, the mind is not, a reality.
The mind is, the mind is not, a passion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a reverie.
The mind is, the mind is not, a hallucination.
The mind is, the mind is not, a leaning.
The mind is, the mind is not, a desire.
The mind is, the mind is not, an aspiration.
The mind is, the mind is not, an idea.
The mind is, the mind is not, a notion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a mirage.
The mind is, the mind is not, a custom.
The mind is, the mind is not, a preference.
The mind is, the mind is not, a memory.
The mind is, the mind is not, an irony.
The mind is, the mind is not, a paradox.
The mind is, the mind is not, a figment.
The mind is, the mind is not, a daydream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a wish.
The mind is, the mind is not, an ambition.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pattern.
The mind is, the mind is not, a frame.
The mind is, the mind is not, a nightmare.
The mind is, the mind is not, a trick.
The mind is, the mind is not, a tradition.
The mind is, the mind is not, a thought.
The mind is, the mind is not, a window.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fear.
The mind is, the mind is not, a template.
The mind is, the mind is not, an artifice.
The mind is, the mind is not, a custom.
The mind is, the mind is not, a convention.
The mind is, the mind is not, a chimera.
The mind is, the mind is not, a projection.
The mind is, the mind is not, an impression.
The mind is, the mind is not, a goal.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pipedream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a wont.
The mind is, the mind is not, a deception.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fantasy.
The mind is, the mind is not, an addiction.
The mind is, the mind is not, a problem.
The mind is, the mind is not, a mold.
The mind is, the mind is not, a character.
The mind is, the mind is not, a liking.
The mind is, the mind is not, an inclination.
The mind is, the mind is not, a matrix.
What is Genesis?
What is Genesis but a wind propelling its own sail.
What is Genesis but a brush frolicking upon its own canvas.
What is Genesis but a hammer pounding upon its own nail.
What is Genesis but a wave heading toward its own shore.
What is Genesis but a flame burning in its own darkness.
What is Genesis but a particle drifting in its own space.
What is Genesis but a dream floating in its given mind.
Only Vanity Believes
Only vanity believes it is real.
Only vanity believes it is important.
Only vanity believes in gods and demons.
Only vanity believes in ghosts and monsters.
Only vanity believes in messiahs and saints.
Only vanity believes it is harbor to change.
Only vanity believes in more, more, more.
Only vanity believes nil is not an option.
Only vanity believes imagination exists.
Only vanity believes itself immortal.
Only vanity believes belief is true.
Only as Real as You Imagine Them
Differences are only as real as you imagine them.
Conclusions are only as real as you imagine them.
Assumptions are only as real as you imagine them.
Speculations are only as real as you imagine them.
Before All Beginnings, After All Ends
When did imagination begin? And who was it before? Who will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And what was it before? What will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And where was it before? Where will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And when was it before? Where when it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And why was it before? Why will it be after it ends?
When did imagination begin? And how was it before? How will it be after it ends?
Existence is Enough
Existence is enough.
The moment is enough.
It does not require stories.
It does not require philosophies.
It does not require deities or dogmas.
It does not require more, more, ever more.
It does not require meaning, it does not require purpose.
It does not require power or wealth or celebrity.
It does not require pedestrian groupthink.
It does not require political sanction.
It does not require consciousness.
It does not require knowledge.
It does not require anything.
Not even the illusory you.
The moment is enough.
Existence is enough.
The Garden of Dualistic Notion
The Garden of Life and Death.
The Garden of Good and Evil.
The Garden of Desire and Fear.
The Garden of Sweet and Bitter.
The Garden of Black and White.
The Garden of Sound and Silence.
The Garden of Kind and Callous.
The Garden of Full and Empty.
The Garden of Hot and Cold.
The Garden of Ones and Zeros.
The Garden of Dualistic Notion.
Ever the Same You
You are ever the same You.
Everything is ever the same You.
There is nothing that is not the same You.
No matter the dimension.
No matter the quantum.
No matter the matrix.
No matter the universe.
No matter the galaxy.
No matter the star.
No matter the world.
No matter the space.
No matter the time.
No matter the culture.
No matter the language.
No matter the mind-body.
No matter the dream.
No matter the gender.
No matter the costume.
No matter the vocation.
No matter the dogma.
No matter the politics.
No matter the attitude.
No matter the whatever.
You are ever the same You.
What is Hope?
To hope, or not to hope, that is the question.
What is hope?
What is hope, but:
Hope is to:
Hope is:
Hope:
Go back to the drawing board
Beat around the bush
That ship has sailed
Go down in flames
Have eyes bigger than one's stomach
Fly in the ointment
A dime a dozen
A bitter pill to swallow
Call it a day
Take with a grain of salt
Cutting corners
All thumbs
Get your act together
Break a leg
It's not rocket science
Make a long story short
Wild goose chase
Straw that broke the camel's back
Miss the boat
No horse in this race
Hook, line and sinker
Couch potato
Heard it through the grapevine
At the drop of a hat
Barking up the wrong tree
A hot potato
By the seat of one's pants
Chink in one's armor
Bird brain
Cut somebody some slack
My two cents
Kill two birds with one stone
Bed of roses
Pull someone's leg
Pull yourself together
Speak of the devil
Time flies when you're having fun
By the skin of one's teeth
Two a penny
Elephant in the room
Don't count chickens before they hatch
No dog in this fight
To make matters worse
For a song
Pushing up daisies
Trip the light fantastic
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it
Shoot the breeze
Throw under the bus
Wrap your head around something
Screw the pooch
Your guess is as good as mine
You can say that again
What is Left?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are the body?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are the identity?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are all these memories?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are all these relationships?
What is left, after you stop imagining you are anything at all?
What is left, but the still, pure awareness, you ever are,
That to which all manifestation is but a dream.
Only as Real as You Imagine It
Reality is only as real as you imagine it.
Space is only as real as you imagine it.
Time is only as real as you imagine it.
History is only as real as you imagine it.
Science is only as real as you imagine it.
Mathematics is only as real as you imagine it.
Music is only as real as you imagine it.
Art is only as real as you imagine it.
Philosophy is only as real as you imagine it.
Industry is only as real as you imagine it.
Technology is only as real as you imagine it.
Architecture is only as real as you imagine it.
Existence is only as real as you imagine it.
Stuff is only as real as you imagine it.
Other is only as real as you imagine it.
Nature is only as real as you imagine it.
Gaia is only as real as you imagine it.
Genesis is only as real as you imagine it.
Dreamtime is only as real as you imagine it.
Everything is only as real as you imagine it.
God is only as real as you imagine it.
Awareness is only as real as you imagine it.
Self is only as real as you imagine it.
You are only as real as you imagine it.
The Same You
Through all times,
Through all spaces,
The same genesis in all,
The same unknown in all,
The same consciousness in all,
The same imagination in all,
The same awareness in all,
The same moment in all,
The same mystery in all,
The same voice in all,
The same You in all.
Real Friendship
Real friendship does not change.
Real friendship does not judge.
Real friendship does not betray.
Real friendship does not detract.
Real friendship does not thieve.
Real friendship does not intimidate.
Real friendship does not envy.
Real friendship does not manipulate.
Real friendship does not deny.
Real friendship does not overwhelm.
Real friendship does not attack.
Real friendship does not cling.
Real friendship does not dissolve.
Real friendship does not differentiate.
Real friendship does not desert.
Real friendship does not ridicule.
Real friendship does not labor.
Real friendship does not diminish.
Real friendship does not dogmatize.
Real friendship does not malign.
Real friendship does not abandon.
Real friendship does not deceive.
Real friendship does not hurt.
Real friendship does not destroy.
Real friendship does not turn away.
Real friendship does not end.
Is there such a thing as a real friend?
Or is it just a lot of yada-yada, comparable to fallacious notions of family and flag?
You Are the Awareness
You are not the self.
You are not the mind.
You are not the body,
You are not the world.
You are not the cosmos.
You are the awareness.
You were never born.
You will never die.
Let go all dreams.
Let go all illusions.
Let go all delusions.
Let go all attachments.
Pay attention to the moment.
Be free of space, be free of time.
Without the Mind-Body
Without the mind-body,
What is wet, what is dry?
What is hot, what is cold?
What is loud, what is quiet?
What is sweet, what is bitter?
What is pleasure, what is pain?
What is coarse, what is smooth?
What is harsh, what is gentle?
What is any now-soon-then?
Without illusion its game?
Work on Imagining
Work on imagining who you really are, and are not.
Work on imagining what you really are, and are not.
Work on imagining where you really are, and are not.
Work on imagining when you really are, and are not.
Work on imagining why you really are, and are not.
Work on imagining how you really are, and are not.
Regarding Free Will
You really believe you have free will?
Could you be free of your time?
Could you be free of your space?
Could you be free of your genetics?
Could you be free of your body?
Could you be free of your face?
Could you be free of your eyes?
Could you be free of your ears?
Could you be free of your nose?
Could you be free of your tongue?
Could you be free of your touch?
Could you be free of your language?
Could you be free of your ethnicity?
Could you be free of your gender?
Could you be free of your status?
Could you be free of your knowledge?
Could you be free of your memories?
Could you be free of your beliefs?
Could you be free of your wealth?
Could you be free of your religion?
Could you be free of your politics?
Could you be free of your feelings?
Could you be free of your emotions?
Could you be free of your prejudices?
Could you be free of your reflections?
Could you be free of your insights?
Could you be free of your appetites?
Could you be free of your family?
Could you be free of your friends?
Could you be free of your acquaintances?
Could you be free of your adversaries?
Could you be free of your heritage?
Could you be free of your tribe?
Could you be free of your work?
Could you be free of your habits?
Could you be free of your foods?
Could you be free of your liquids?
Could you be free of your pleasures?
Could you be free of your pains?
Could you be free of your sexuality?
Could you be free of your things?
Could you be free of your hobbies?
Could you be free of your loves?
Could you be free of your likes?
Could you be free of your hates?
Could you be free of your reactions?
Could you be free of your banter?
Could you be free of your algorithm?
Could you be free of your world?
Could you be free of your cosmos?
Could you be free of your moment?
Could you be free of anything at all?
The human paradigm is as fixed as any.
It may seem a complex, superior pattern,
In which consciousness reigns over instinct,
But you are as caught in it, as any jellyfish is its.
Even your most unpredictable actions are predictable.
Free will looking forward, fate looking back.
Your destiny awaits your arrival.
Die to it now, if you can.
What Choice?
What choice has anyone ever had in anything, really?
Nature-nurture, the genetic lottery, coupled with the given backdrop –
History, culture, politics, religion, language, wealth, status, gender, and whatever else –
Fashion all, as surely, as deftly, as a mold does any lump of quantum terra-cotta.
Human consciousness may vainly, in so many ways, deem itself superior,
To the churning instinctual algorithms of all its fellow earthlings,
But primordial instinct is the underlying operating system,
That has been running this state of so-called existence,
Since long before the first hint, the first tethers, of imagination.
Destiny is, each and every timeless moment, choreographing your arrival.
So, You’re in Love With a Blob, EH?
So, you’re in love with a blob, eh?
What’s your favorite part?
Nerves or arteries?
Brain or body?
Heart or spleen?
Clitoris or ovaries?
Mouth or anus?
Lungs or liver?
Eyes or ears?
Nose or tongue?
Penis or testicles?
Legs or arms?
Knees or elbows?
Flesh or womb?
Big toes or thumbs?
Belly button or buttocks?
Imagine kissing and licking them all.
The Horror! The Horror!
The sights! The sights!
The sounds! The sounds!
The smells! The smells!
The tastes! The tastes!
The textures! The textures!
The thoughts! The thoughts!
The vanity! The vanity!
The hunger! The hunger!
The algorithm! The algorithm!
The division! The division!
The creativity! The creativity!
The greed! The greed!
The hypocrisy! The hypocrisy!
The sorrow! The sorrow!
The discordance! The discordance!
The subtlety! The subtlety!
The laziness! The laziness!
The love! The love!
The paradox! The paradox!
The wealth! The wealth!
The poverty! The poverty!
The loneliness! The loneliness!
The disparity! The disparity!
The dullness! The dullness!
The violence! The violence!
The obesity! The obesity!
The pain! The pain!
The disharmony! The disharmony!
The genetics! The genetics!
The novelty! The novelty!
The ambition! The ambition!
The stress! The stress!
The predictability! The predictability!
The ugliness! The ugliness!
The brilliance! The brilliance!
The dogma! The dogma!
The monotony! The monotony!
The matrix! The matrix!
The bullshit! The bullshit!
The wisdom! The wisdom!
The stupidity! The stupidity!
The boredom! The boredom!
The hate! The hate!
The tradition! The tradition!
The suffering! The suffering!
The bother! The bother!
The corruption! The corruption!
The loyalty! The loyalty!
The worry! The worry!
The rigidity! The rigidity!
The cacophony! The cacophony!
The deceit! The deceit!
The pleasure! The pleasure!
The viciousness! The viciousness!
The irony! The irony!
The repetition! The repetition!
The conflict! The conflict!
The beauty! The beauty!
The harmony! The harmony!
The insanity! The insanity!
The tribalism! The tribalism!
The cruelty! The cruelty!
The industry! The industry!
The emptiness! The emptiness!
The drama! The drama!
The inanity! The inanity!
The absurdity! The absurdity!
The horror! The horror!
What Would Your Frame of Reference Be?
Imagine having never smelled a smell.
Imagine having never tasted a flavor.
Imagine having never seen an image.
Imagine having never heard a sound.
Imagine having never felt a sensation.
Imagine any combination of the above.
What would your frame of reference be?
What would your world, your universe, be?
Where is Your Face?
Where is your face? What does it really look like?
What about the back of your noggin? Or either side view?
What about your back? Or the back of your neck? Or your shoulders?
Or your derrière, without a mirror? What do others see, when you are walking away?
Discerning the matrix vista, that state of awareness, prior to consciousness –
Detached, relativistic, indivisible, timeless, spaceless, boundless –
Is ample proof, if You are fated to achieve such a feat,
That you are indeed the mystery, unto Self.
You
The word is not the thing.
The note is not the melody.
The number is not the actuality.
The imagination is not the awareness.
The moment is not the perception.
The thought is not the now.
Truth is not a concept.
You are not you.
Of Rises and Falls
Every life form has its rise and fall.
Every tribe has its rise and fall.
Every culture has its rise and fall.
Every nation has its rise and fall.
Every boulder has its rise and fall.
Every mountain has its rise and fall.
Every world has its rise and fall.
Every star has its rise and fall.
Every galaxy has its rise and fall.
Every universe has its rise and fall.
The mystery is all, the mystery permeates all.
The awareness, every moment, indelible witness to all.
There is no other; only the quantum matrix, and its eternity of appearances,
Kaleidoscoping a most excellent dream of space and time, that only the rarest minds discern unto Self.
You Are the Ephemeral
You are the ephemeral sentience.
You are the ephemeral awareness.
You are the ephemeral intelligence.
You are the ephemeral astuteness.
You are the ephemeral compassion.
You are the ephemeral twinkling.
You are the ephemeral sensitivity.
You are the ephemeral right now.
You are the ephemeral awakeness.
You are the ephemeral here now.
You are the ephemeral alertness.
You are the ephemeral absurdity.
You are the ephemeral madness.
You are the ephemeral discrimination.
You are the ephemeral keenness.
You are the ephemeral shrewdness.
You are the ephemeral foolishness.
You are the ephemeral intuition.
You are the ephemeral moment.
You are the ephemeral judiciousness.
You are the ephemeral sagacity.
You are the ephemeral fluidity.
You are the ephemeral wisdom.
You are the ephemeral acumen.
You are the ephemeral flexibility.
You are the ephemeral instant.
You are the ephemeral insight.
You are the ephemeral now.
You are the ephemeral acuity.
You are the ephemeral jiffy.
You are the ephemeral sagacity.
You are the ephemeral wisdom.
You are the ephemeral acumen.
You are the ephemeral shrewdness.
You are the ephemeral judiciousness.
You are the ephemeral sensitivity.
You are the ephemeral here.
You are the ephemeral perception.
You are the ephemeral discernment.
You are the ephemeral discernment.
You are the ephemeral present.
You are the ephemeral passion.
You are the ephemeral dexterity.
You are the ephemeral sentience.
You are the ephemeral perceptiveness.
It you are thinking it, you are not being it.
Just This Moment
There is just this timeless moment.
Sometimes it is ecstasy, sometimes it is agony.
Sometimes it is true, sometimes it is false.
Sometimes it is full, sometimes it is empty.
Sometimes it is happy, sometimes it is sad.
Sometimes it is known, sometimes it is unknown.
Sometimes it is life, sometimes it is death.
Sometimes it is pleasant, sometimes it is noxious.
Sometimes it is fast, sometimes it is slow.
Sometimes it is clear, sometimes it is foggy.
Sometimes it is tangible, sometimes it is intangible.
Sometimes it is rich, sometimes it is poor.
Sometimes it is on, sometimes it is off.
Sometimes it is white, sometimes it is black.
Sometimes it is large, sometimes it is small.
Sometimes it is real, sometimes it is imaginary.
Sometimes it is smart, sometimes it is stupid.
Sometimes it is straight, sometimes it is crooked.
Sometimes it is punctual, sometimes it is late.
Sometimes it is busy, sometimes it is slow.
Sometimes it is reassuring, sometimes it is scary.
Sometimes it is serene, sometimes it is bustling.
Sometimes it is beautiful, sometimes it is ugly.
Sometimes it is sharp, sometimes it is blunt.
Sometimes it is day, sometimes it is night.
Sometimes it is bright, sometimes it is gloomy.
Sometimes it is loving, sometimes it is hateful.
Sometimes it is simple, sometimes it is complex.
Sometimes it is icy, sometimes it is tepid.
Sometimes it is friendly, sometimes it is hostile.
Sometimes it is young, sometimes it is old.
Sometimes it is energetic, sometimes it is lethargic.
Sometimes it is colors, sometimes it is gray.
Sometimes it is right, sometimes it is wrong.
Sometimes it is interesting, sometimes it is boring.
Sometimes it is close, sometimes it is distant.
Sometimes it is right, sometimes it is left.
Sometimes it is same, sometimes it is different.
Sometimes it is exact, sometimes it is approximate.
Sometimes it is similar, sometimes it is different.
Sometimes it is in, sometimes it is out.
Sometimes it is sweet, sometimes it is sour.
Sometimes it is early, sometimes it is late.
Sometimes it is soft, sometimes it is rough.
Sometimes it is tasty, sometimes it is bland.
Sometimes it is fragrant, sometimes it is smelly.
Sometimes it is yin, sometimes it is yang.
Sometimes it is inhale, sometimes it is exhale.
Sometimes it is smooth, sometimes it is rough.
Sometimes it is wavy, sometimes it is flat.
Sometimes it is round, sometimes it is square.
Sometimes it is up, sometimes it is down.
Sometimes it is excellent, sometimes it is mediocre.
Sometimes it is rich, sometimes it is poor.
Sometimes it is silent, sometimes it is noisy.
Sometimes it is expensive, sometimes it is cheap.
Sometimes it is male, sometimes it is female.
Sometimes it is happy, sometimes it is depressed.
Sometimes it is good, sometimes it is bad.
Sometimes it is reasonable, sometimes it is absurd.
Sometimes it is near, sometimes it is far.
Sometimes it is sane, sometimes it is insane.
Sometimes it is light, sometimes it is dark.
Sometimes it is hot, sometimes it is cold.
Sometimes it is dry, sometimes it is wet.
Sometimes it is here, sometimes it is there.
Sometimes it is now, sometimes it is then.
Sometimes it is this, sometimes it is that.
Sometimes it is born, sometimes it is dying.
Sometimes it is unborn, sometimes it is undying.
Sometimes it is beginning, sometimes it is ending.
Sometimes it is everything, sometimes it is nothing.
But it is always the same timeless moment.
The Grand Theater
You are the unfathomable, playing fathomable.
You are the immutable, playing mercurial.
You are the indivisible, playing divisible.
You are the infinite, playing limited.
You are the timeless, playing time.
You are the ineffable, playing effable.
You are the infinitesimal, playing huge.
You are the changeless, playing changing.
You are the neverborn, playing existence.
You are the indelible, playing delible.
You are the flexible, playing inflexible.
You are the interminable, playing finite.
You are the everlasting, playing transient.
You are the perpetual, playing temporary.
You are the unknown, playing known.
You are the unutterable, playing utterable.
You are the absurdity, playing logic.
You are the unborn, playing life.
You are the undying, playing death.
You are the constant, playing irregular.
You are the impenetrable, playing penetrable.
You are the intangible, playing tangible.
You are the intrinsic, playing acquired.
You are the unending, playing destined.
You are the unceasing, playing sporadic.
You are the irrational, playing rational.
You are the indivisible, playing divisible.
You are the inexpressible, playing expressible.
You are the enduring, playing short-lived.
You are the ageless, playing age.
You are the abyss, playing shallow.
You are the indefinable, playing definable.
You are the immortal, playing mortal.
You are the eternal, playing transience.
You are the unspeakable, playing speakable.
You are the unchangeable, playing changeable.
You are the You, playing you.