The First Page
We are all created of the same source,
By whatever name you might wish to call it.
Our sense of individuality is merely a fleeting illusion,
Born of the attachment of consciousness to mind-body-spirit.
In reality, we are all equally the same awareness permeating all things.
All dualistic notions are vain delusion fabricated by imagination.
Yes, it all seems real and true enough at any given moment,
But if you fully contemplate the ever-present now,
You will discern that this state we call life
Is really nothing more than a very temporary
Touchy-feely, three-dimensional, sensory reverie.
The indivisible, absolute mystery, pretending existence.
2
The endless permutations of nature-nurture,
Of culture, of creed, of politics, of economics, of anything,
Are without conclusion, yet ever born, ever sculpted,
Of the same imaginary distillation of mind.
3
That source, that origin, that fount, that nucleus, which is called by many names,
Is prior to any sensory theater, prior to all forms small to great,
Prior to any whimsical certitudes of imagination,
Prior to any notion of this or that,
Prior to all dualities,
Prior to every definition
Inspired by the myriad other.
* * * *
This ephemeral awareness belongs to no one.
It is the ether that permeates all things, transcends all things.
There are no individuals but in the imaginary reveries
Of the ever-changing theater of consciousness.
Prior to consciousness, there is only you,
In the greatest, most profound sense.
4
All purpose, all meaning,
Is the fabrication of consciousness.
The nothingness from which all things spring
Is indivisibly absolute, with neither cause nor direction.
How can there be any permanence in manifest time and space,
In that which is no more than a sensory figment of temporal imagination?
5
You can only see
What you are capable of seeing.
You can only hear what you are capable of hearing.
You can only taste, smell, and feel what you are capable of tasting, smelling, and feeling.
And in reality, you are truly seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and feeling
Your Self cloaked in every form, every disguise imaginable.
* * * *
What is existence but an entirely imagined script,
A genetic lottery in which no one has ever had any choice, any voice
In the body they are given … in their family, ethnicity, gender, constitution, mental acuity,
Geography, culture, caste, creed, socio-economic level, language, education,
And the capacities and limitations all variables together play out.
To assert any have even a mere sliver of free will
Is in itself a very dubious claim.
7
Tag the immeasurable, the indivisible, the unknown, however you will,
It remains forever untouched, untainted, immaculately eternal.
The dream of consciousness is but quantum vibration in the ever-present now,
An imaginary configuration of the human mind snared in the web of its own sensory creation.
8
What there is to learn, what there is to impart,
Is prior to all the volumes ever written,
All the institutions ever concocted,
All the idolatry ever asserted,
All the rituals ever established,
All the temples ever constructed,
All the incalculable inanities, insanities,
Ever carried out in some imaginary god’s name.
9
Why pretend to know what can never be known?
What point is there to faith in some imaginary deity, some heaven,
If you cannot even manage to perceive the eternity playing out before your very eyes?
10
Karmas and heavens and hells, are imaginary notions
For those who believe they should feel dread or guilt or shame
For being born into an existence in which they had absolutely no choice.
* * * *
Everything before now, everything after now,
Is the ever-transitory movement of imagination.
The ground of awareness is very still, ever watchful,
The eternal witness watching itself dream.
12
And does it matter to anyone but you?
This so-called spiritual quest
Is in many ways
More than a little silly.
Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,
The vapor of imagination’s rainbow.
And awakening is, so to speak, the last vanity.
13
The dreamy, romantic, clueless, quixotic, idealist might like to assume
The dark age that will be setting its shadow upon this world
Cannot help but recalibrate human consciousness
Into some sort of transcendent paradigm.
But that supposes, of course,
A shift in the genetic make-up, as well.
Which is, indeed, an inspiring leap of imagination.
14
Humanity did not get kicked out of Eden.
It just got so hornswoggled by its own imagination
That most just stopped seeing it was everywhere and everything.
And anyone who does not play along with the collusion
Is considered a child, senile, or insane.
15
We are all awash in the immeasurable singularity of an imaginary matrix.
Nothing is separate, nothing greater or lesser, nothing mortal.
We are all birthed of the same inexplicable essence,
A kaleidoscoping dream of consciousness
To which each alone is witness.
17
Imagination, in its capacity
To explore to the farthest reaches,
Itself becomes the creator of all limitation.
18
Imagine witnessing this garden world
Before our two-legged shadow
Came down from the trees.
20
Why venerate anything imagined?
Why not just be in the here and now,
Free of all imaginary constraints?
21
What you really are has absolutely nothing to do
With any memory, any thought, any idea, any concept,
Any movement of imaginary notion, whatsoever.
* * * *
The grand theater, and everything in it,
Is the dream of the mind-body.
You are the awareness,
The witness,
Which discerns all,
But is none of it all the while.
23
Envision this vast cosmos an immeasurable aquarium,
And all we organisms from great to small wandering about,
Breathing in and breathing out, consuming and being consumed.
Earth, air, water, fire – indivisibly intertwined throughout the heavens,
Creating-preserving-destroying, through all beginnings, through all endings.
A god-eat-god creation which all are equally witnessing in every way imaginable.
* * * *
What is, is far greater
Than any veil of imagination
Can ever more than begin to grasp.
25
Abiding in thought, in the metaphors of persona,
In the imaginary pretense of little self, is a form of death.
To die to all the fabricated concepts, all the notions of this or that,
To live attentive to the very present, timeless awareness,
Is to immerse in the eternal life you truly are.
27
Realize it or not, you are a particle of the grand mystery,
Of that indivisible essence which many call god.
Perhaps acting out some demon role,
But a shard, nonetheless.
You have only to look within
To discern the infinite awareness
Prior to the dreaming of time and space,
From which all have only in imagination splintered.
* * * *
Every group, large or small,
Harbors in its own unique mythology.
All myths, all legends, all allegories, all narratives,
All parables, all fables, all tales, all sagas,
All stories, all yarns, all epics,
Are equally imagined.
28
Everything is a story.
There are no greater or lesser stories.
All are imagined in the movement of consciousness in time.
None abide in the eternal now.
29
The universe is a touchy-feely mirage
Inspired by the senses, wielded by imagination.
A momentary three-dimensional play,
Nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
Impromptu theater … nothing more … nothing less … nothing but.
The unknown playing its mystery out in any and every way
The dreamtime of imagination sets into motion.
30
And stardust somehow came into existence.
It could never more than speculate out how it all came to be,
But rather than be happy and content not knowing,
It managed to argue, struggle and battle
Over everything imaginable
Forever more.
* * * *
Perhaps humankind will someday awaken when all its memes,
All its idolatries, all its imagined deities, have failed them one too many times.
But, then again, probably not, given that the monkey-mind genome
Is so easily compromised by every sort of delusion.
32
Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, eons,
What are they but constructs of consciousness,
Ensnared in its own imaginary net.
* * * *
Neither forward nor backward, toward nor away,
Space-time is but a flickering of imagination,
Born of the eternal now, forever unknown.
* * * *
What does anyone fear but their own imagination?
* * * *
There is nothing to which to worship or plead, really.
Here you are, the indivisible, trapped in a body, all alone,
Dreaming out the unfolding collusion of the human paradigm.
All religion is founded upon the ignorance of this fundamental fact.
* * * *
So many experiences, so much history, so much knowledge, so much blather.
Nothing more than the filter of imagination given daily reality,
Cloaking the ever-present now from its Self.
33
What are the imaginary dualities to you
Who are the fundamental awareness in all things.
You who are serene witness to all creation.
Known or unknown, done or undone,
Oblivion is your singular nature.
35
All differences are imagined.
Prior to consciousness,
It is all you,
One,
Eternally alone,
Free of all mortal constraints.
36
The tree of knowledge
Is a cacophony of imagination
Allowed every direction and meaning.
The indivisible totality, that which is and is not,
Is indifferent to all that is and is not.
37
Put behind you all the teachers and teachings in which time has played,
And discern the fundamental reality they reveal within you.
They are but ambiguous, imaginary ghosts;
You are the oneness abiding dreamtime’s here now.
* * * *
It is ever and always the same awareness within.
Only the play of imagination cloaks it otherwise.
39
Why would not the source permeate every part and particle?
How small-minded to even for a moment imagine
Anything could be anything but indivisible.
40
How long are we going to quarrel
Over which dogma is true,
Which version of the mystery is real,
When the only thing that has ever really been argued
Are the imaginings born of one geographical assumption or another.
* * * *
The ultimate reality is that each and every one of us
Has the opportunity to discern the mystery we all equally are.
But the conditioning, the mindsets, the traditions, the dogmas, the memes,
The identification of consciousness with the mind, the heart, the body, the world, the universe,
Have humankind locked in a stranglehold entirely of its own imaginary creation.
We are on a sure an unwavering course toward self-destruction,
An unfolding well beyond the point of no return.
What will come of it is the pulp of dystopian fiction.
41
Everything manifest,
And the time through which it wafts,
Is the complete and utter construction of imagination.
For in the nowness, there is only eternity,
And the witness abiding all.
42
My story, your story, his story, her story, our story, the story.
All simultaneous; all absolutely, indivisibly, eternally imagined.
43
What is human history but a ceaseless struggle
Over whose imagination should reign.
Who was the first to come up with the fanciful notion
That we vain two-leggeds might someday, somehow, all come together
Into one big happily-dancing-Age-of-Aquarius family?
Out-and-out balderdash, to be sure.
44
History, a bottomless grab bag
In the vast immensity of imagination.
Nothing more than whatever comes to mind.
45
There is tabula rasa, an uncarved block, an unrippled soul, within,
But the imaginary, make-believe you, formed of consciousness,
Must become very still, very quiet, for its awareness to reign.
48
No collusion ever imagined by any group has ever possessed the truth.
All mythologies are but metaphors of every complexity
Woven into every guise, every shape.
* * * *
Everything you think you are,
Everything you think the world is,
Is all completely imagined.
Everything.
49
Zen-ish riddlers abound in every time,
Every corner of this temporal, worldly dreamtime.
For ignorance to awaken to their clever, erudite frolic, however,
Is too unlikely to even bother imagining for more than a brief pittance of time.
51
The atheist is as misguided as any believer.
All assertions are but the self-deceptions of imagination.
Agnostic |agˈnästik| noun: a person who believes that nothing is known
Or can be known of the existence or nature of God
Or of anything beyond material phenomena;
A person who claims neither faith
Nor disbelief in God.
* * * *
You are awareness.
The rest is imagination.
Life is surfing within a dream,
Until the wave crashes.
* * * *
All anyone really knows is what they or somebody else thought up.
All things fashioned of consciousness are nothing more
Than the effervescence of imagination
In the stardust of mind.
53
Oblivion is the end to all lies, all fabrications, all self-deceptions.
It is the vital source, the essence prior to all becoming.
It is the experiencing prior to all experience,
The intangible prior to all that is tangible,
The awareness prior to consciousness,
The actuality prior to all that is imagined,
The substantial prior to all that is insubstantial,
That which is prior to all context, prior to all manifest dreams.
56
All dogmas discuss, debate, battle, over imagined facets of the same origin.
Different metaphors, different archetypes, different interpretations,
Different sounds, different principles, different speculations.
Different this … different that … different whatever.
All struggling over the same eternal source,
The same inexplicable fountainhead,
Over and over and over again.
* * * *
There is only one awareness,
There is only one consciousness,
Splintered into an endless array of forms,
Playing out every prospect imagination deigns.
A capricious ocean of surging tides and crashing waves,
But an ocean, nonetheless.
* * * *
‘Supreme Being’ is being in the most
Omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent way.
It is less about some imaginary, individual deity,
Than it is the austerity of pure, unadulterated awareness.
Agape is the indivisible, unconditional, impersonal indifference.
57
That which we call god is the quantum essence which is never born and can never die.
But if there were a personalized supreme divinity that so many have imagined,
He, she, it – or whatever – would more than likely be bored to tears
Having to daily endure the ceaselessly predictable inanities
Of our two-legged, thumb-wagging, tool-making, monkey-mind kind,
And the ongoing devastation of what is very likely one of eternity’s greatest creations.
58
All concepts are merely concepts, no matter how noble or corrupt.
They morph, they dissipate, they are all nothing more
Than brief, transitory, imaginary whims.
60
Ultimately, there is no evil, there is no sin, there no dark side.
There is only corrupted, twisted, perverted consciousness.
There is only the veiling, the muddying of awareness.
There is only ignorance and delusion and duality.
Evil does not truly exist in any way or shape or form,
But through the vanity-vanity-all-is-vanity of imagination.
61
Imagination is the time machine.
Travel where you will, Pilgrim.
62
“Let us play a game of irony and paradox,” suggested one quantum.
“With every agony and ecstasy imaginable,” added another.
“And a slathering of absurdity,” suggested a third.
“But why bother?” moaned a fourth.
“Why not?” said yet another.
“Indeed,” agreed all the others.
* * * *
There is nothing more than this ephemeral now
That can be more than witnessed as a fleeting dream.
Consciousness may play out every distraction imaginable,
But it will never be anything more than the wind of its own design.
64
How many worship some imaginary deity, praying for blessings, for forgiveness,
And then spend every other moment possible in one pursuit or another,
Lying, cheating, thieving, even plotting murder and mayhem,
Never discerning their hypocrisy and self-deceit.
* * * *
Sometimes the absurdity makes you laugh out loud,
And in other moments, you are so serious and sorrowful
That you wail and curse to the vast quagmire of imagination.
* * * *
You need not participate in any mindset, any groupthink, large or small.
Cleanse your mind, your awareness, of all memes, all inventions, all fictions,
All contrivances fashioned of imagination’s perpetual collection of absurd notions.
Stand alone, and be as inwardly free as the moment before you were conceived.
66
What a thing to spend your life
Locked in dogmas and idolatries,
Bound up in traditions, superstitions,
In fear of some god or gods or demons,
Concerned about heavens or hells or karma.
Why allow imagination to have such free reign?
Why give your Self over to such senseless absurdity?
68
You only imagine yourself an actual entity.
You were not, you are not, you need not care.
* * * *
69
The identity, the “me, myself, and I,”
Is a concoction, a complete and utter fabrication
Of imagination’s attachment to the mind-body, its sensory play,
And its incessant penchant for every sort of delusion.
71
If this orb was considered a small lifeboat upon an infinite sea,
The prophets, the mystics, the seers, are those who dive over the side,
Explore the unseen depths, and climb back aboard to share their discoveries
With those clinging passionately to the vain, illusory safety of their berth.
Many, perhaps most, will very quickly turn away and refuse to listen.
Some will quarrel, scoff, or curse, praising imaginary clay gods.
Some will avidly listen and then label themselves followers.
Some will timidly test the unknown and find it too cold,
Or, worse yet, misguidedly think they, too, have it.
Some, seeing what needs be done, will dive in,
Perhaps to one day also return awakened,
Emptied by the realization of the indivisible.
* * * *
The quantum matrix can indeed be in far more than two dimensions in any given moment.
In fact, it is capable of generating an incalculable number of permutations
Of anything and everything, wherever consciousness abides.
Far more grand than any god imaginable.
72
There is really no you but in the field of imagination.
Any given moment is absolutely indifferent
To the dream of consciousness
Streaming through it.
77
Simply put, you are the indefinable, unfathomable, indivisible source,
Playing out the temporal reverie of one form or another.
Born into an ever-changing creation,
You move this way or that,
Nothing more than a dream of consciousness,
A streaming of imagination’s potential inspired by the given senses.
* * * *
Is a drop its attributes, or is a drop merely a drop?
Is an ocean its attributes, or is an ocean merely an ocean?
What are any distinctions, to whatever scale,
But imaginary fabrications?
* * * *
The capacities and limitations of any given form
Interweave with other given capacities and limitations
Into an immeasurable, synergistic, ever-streaming dreaming.
So beyond imagination as to be utterly, absurdly incomprehensible.
78
The universe is but a dance of imagination.
You are the singularity, the witness that never sleeps,
Unborn, untainted by creation or destruction,
Or the ever-changing dream between.
* * * *
Eternal life is simply living in the awareness of the ever-streaming moment,
Oblivious to the space and time in which the manifest mind abides.
The state of being when the allure of the many attributes,
The countless fabrications of imagined identity,
Lose all meaning, all purpose, all concern,
When the magnitude of the singular present is all.
79
Stars shine, sun blazes, moon reflects, earth blooms, life comes, life goes.
Purpose, meaning, belief, hope, are but imaginary concoctions.
Cling to them as you will, but know that any existence,
No matter how long, is for but a moment.
80
Where is the center of the universe, if not you?
At least in your imaginary translation, anyway.
81
Residing within each and every living thing from the greatest to the smallest,
Is the same quantum upwelling, the same quantum intelligence.
To imagine otherwise is but egocentric ignorance.
To respect all is the highest order.
* * * *
Imagine knowing what every other
You have ever encountered really thought of you.
What a mad helter-skelter of everything-under-the-sun perception
That angel-to-demon vision would more than likely be.
85
Discerning the indivisible, you realize
That all manifest forms are of the same reckoning,
Founded upon all the knowledge, shaped by all the concepts,
The countless absurdities fashioned by the kaleidoscoping sensory theater.
That you your Self, in each and every passing moment, imagine it all
In the temporal dreamy window of eternity set before you.
86
Have you ever really existed as more than a figment of imagination?
Are you really anything more than a fleeting ghost of history past?
And what is history but a rolodex of memories quickly forgotten.
* * * *
In a room filled with adults of all ages,
Imagine them as the children they once were.
And on a playground strewn with children,
Imagine the adults they will someday be.
* * * *
Instinct has never been a match
For the free will born of imagination.
87
It is not some imagined god or great fiend
Who can be blamed for the hells of human concoction.
It is self-absorption that is the driving force of the entire human condition.
It is pride that has manifested the innumerable horrors
We have all together contrived.
88
Personality is reaction to the sensory play.
It is the response of the mind-body to its environment.
The disharmony of duality dissolves as concern for mortality dissolves.
Attention shifts from the travails of imagination to the awareness prior to consciousness.
From desire, fear, anger, sorrow, separation in any of it many forms,
To the indivisible serenity of the eternal witness.
89
Identity is born of the patterning of nature and nurture.
What you truly are is prior to all patterns, all designs,
All infatuations invented by any play of imagination.
94
You quest that which you already are.
You desire that which you already own.
You discern that which is ever unknown.
You are you own worst imaginary enemy,
You are your own best imaginary friend,
Wonderfully, terribly, forever alone.
* * * *
You have always been your own truth, your own law,
Whether of your own design or adopted of another’s mind.
Your dream has only ever meant whatever you imagine it means.
95
Every assumption of dogma,
Every form of idolatry,
Every concoction of superstition,
Have their roots in the quicksand of imagination.
* * * *
Of course the god that is imagined does not exist.
How could that which is omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent,
That which is infinitely, timelessly, indivisibly flawless,
Ever partake anything as more than witness?
98
What does everyone do every morning they awaken,
But re-fabricate their imaginary narrative,
Suit up in the appropriate costume,
And walk out into their day.
* * * *
From the beginning of time’s invention,
Deities have been concocted in every geography
To moderate the mind’s dread of its inherent emptiness.
Humankind has distracted itself with every imaginable diversion,
And still the abyss of oblivion yawns forever eternal.
99
You are only bound by mortal limitations
While there is identification with the given mind-body.
Awareness is without imaginary attributes.
100
Imagine, if from your beginning,
Imagine, if from your beginning,
You were among a modest, wise people,
Who clearly imparted that you were the mystery,
That you were the epicenter of your individual universe,
A guardian of this garden, and that the entire universe about you
Was filled with teachers, each valued for their gift, whatever it might be.
And that you were also one of their teachers, likewise valued, likewise ordained.
Imagine that you were brought up with the certainty that each and every fellow life form,
From the very largest to the very smallest, are all kin in the highest sense,
And that you are a solitary witness to the eternal song of mystery,
Never to doubt, even once, that you are truly of the one.
* * * *
You are that which is brick and mortar to all spaces, all times.
That which is witness to every dimension, every dream.
That which is awake even during the deepest sleep.
That which is asleep in even the most alert vigil.
That which is the tiniest, infinitesimal point.
That which is the most infinite expanse.
That which none can either claim to be,
Nor feign, except in delusion, not to be.
That which is, ever was, and will ever be.
That which is not, never was, and will never be.
The quantum matrix prior to all imaginings born of mind,
The eternal nature prior to all attributes formed of consciousness,
Indivisible, unblemished, singular, supreme, sovereign, absolute, without peer.
101
Prior to imagination … motionless, absolute, unconfined.
103
What makes anyone really believe some deity born of their imagination
Truly wants this inane monkey-mind absurdity to continue?
A bad joke, a cruel hoax, a meaningless dream,
For which the only outcome is ruin.
* * * *
Perception, sometimes vague and obtuse, sometimes clear and acute.
Yet always just perception; imagination playing its predictable game.
105
Do you really believe the vain confines of your, puny, proud, sluggish imagination,
All the restricting, dogmatic assertions to which you absurdly lay claim,
Is as far as your perception of god would, or should, ever go?
* * * *
106
What is the god anyone imagines
But a projection of their own inane vanity.
What is there to save when zero-sum is ground to all.
107
Nothing you have ever imagined, are ever imagining, or will ever imagine, is ultimately real.
* * * *
What can you possibly know
Beyond the limits of imagination?
All beliefs, all speculations, are meaningless.
108
Death makes all history absurdly irrelevant.
All tradition is the delusion of imagination.
114
Despite all the countless flurries of imagination
Playing out in every nook, every cranny of consciousness,
There is really nowhere to be, nowhere to go,
But right here, right now.
* * * *
An absolute wellspring of irony, paradox, doubt, and absurdity,
That is what you must be, indeed, to wantonly, brazenly, fearlessly,
Recklessly peer behind the imaginary veil of this vaporous Oz.
115
Come and gone in the momentary twinkle of every eye,
A universe simultaneously created and destroyed
In the fleeting dreamtime of imagination.
116
It is not in time and space through which you have always believed you wander,
But in the dream of time and space inspired by imagination’s sensory hologram.
117
Heavens and hells are all merely
Fabricated whims of imagination.
* * * *
Why did humankind evolve the way we have?
Perhaps it was just a Darwinian survival mechanism of consciousness
As memory, imagination, and language fabricated time,
And then gradually colluded into it.
118
Sometimes you are you, and other times you are You.
And at the end of imagination’s temporal reign,
It will not matter even one iota what you were or when.
It is a quantum dream, no matter the cards or how they are played.
119
Half the world are “innies,” half are “outies,”
And with them we do everything imaginable.
120
What is this sometimes almost desperate need to be known,
To be recognized, approved, applauded, by others?
Being more than what you have always been
Is just not possible, nor at all necessary.
It is only imagination’s projection
Dreaming out yet another sensory day.
* * * *
Look at ancient ruins across the world, and imagine in just a few thousand years
The more-than-likely state of decay and mayhem of all the nuclear reactors and waste sites
We have so mindlessly, foolishly, absurdly, slapped across the face of time to come.
121
Why be bound by any geographical collusion?
Why be bound by any human concoction?
Why be bound by anything imagined?
* * * *
DNA suffers no ethical dilemmas, no moral quagmires.
Its only mindless concern is its genetic survival and continuity.
In that quest, no course of action endures any reflection, whatsoever.
“The end justifies any means” is its only true law, its only abiding directive.
Anyone living is only here now because of every possible permutation imaginable,
Since the mystery of existence came into being in the puddle of some long ago.
122
Other than one contrived, arbitrary, vain notion or another,
How can there be any separation, between creator and creation?
You are it, and it is you, in each and every form imaginable,
And everything formless, through which all are bent.
124
Imagination on its daily sensory tour.
* * * *
Where is any knowledge anchored but the filament of imagination?
125
Vain notions founded on the quicksand of imagination
Should never be confused with the truth of their origin.
126
Like groups with like, only differences apart.
Instinctual or imagined, it is the nature of all great to small
Born of this garden world, this theater in which
Enigmas of every sort rise and fall
In ephemeral grace.
128
Stories within stories within stories,
Woven seamlessly, effortlessly, timelessly,
In imagination’s onetime production.
129
Truth is not something that can be attained
In any imaginable way, shape, or form.
It is merely source to the ever-fleeting,
Ever-mysterious, ever-indivisible moment.
132
In its all but ceaseless, time-bound pursuit of security,
Imagination sows the seeds for every dread imaginable.
133
The only thing jealous about god
Is in the minds of minions who scurry about
Promoting dogmas entirely born of their imaginary vanity.
134
The sensory reverie draws the infant
From the benign womb of beingness
To a universe of incessant becoming.
Eternity is given over to imagination.
* * * *
This timeless, very present moment,
Is all that is, all that has ever been, all that will ever be,
Since long before imagination first began, to well after it last comes undone.
135
Stop believing you are this manifest sensory body and all that is imagined,
And where else is there to go, what else is there to do,
What else is there to be,
But what you are, have ever been, will ever be.
138
What that tattoo, piercing, or implant
Is going to look like in twenty or so years
Is not a very pretty thought to those
Not lacking vivid imaginations.
* * * *
The expanses of imagination
Are but the ephemeral filament
Of the thunder perfect mind.
* * * *
What is consciousness
But the dynamic of imagination
Playing itself out in the ground of eternity.
* * * *
There is really no mine, no yours, no theirs.
There is only consciousness, pure and simple,
Playing out every character imagination inspires.
139
The sands of time are but the ever-shifting dunes of imagination.
* * * *
What is cause, what is effect, in the holography of if it all?
* * * *
The passions are but passing waves of imagination.
140
There is really only this ephemeral nowness,
Envisioned in the mind via the senses,
Filtered into your version of an imagined universe,
The mirage through which you daily wander your dream of time.
142
It is all just imagination’s attachment to this or that.
A sensory dream in the matrix of eternity.
You are untainted awareness,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Just putting in your time in whatever way the dream calls.
* * * *
143
In just one ephemeral moment, death rubs out an entire existence,
All its imaginary perceptions completely undone for all eternity.
And all your power, all your fame, all your fortune, all your belief,
Cannot even one moment more command, influence, acquire, or hope.
144
Memory is but the wake of imagination.
* * * *
It is whatever you think it is.
It is not anything you think it is.
All just pretend, all just make-believe,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Nothing, even a moment ago, ever happened.
Everything is devised of time-bound imagination.
You were not, you are not, you need not care.
145
The past becomes longer, deeper, fuller,
And the unfolding future ever more expansive.
That is, if you continue bothering to imagine it all real.
It takes a good deal of effortlessness to be right here, right now.
146
We are all wee little figments
Of your imagination,
And you in ours, and ours in each other’s.
Consciousness is merely an ever-flowing dream of imagination.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
148
Imagination, in all its vanities, can be a cruel taskmaster in this grand hoax.
149
This ever-streaming moment is all you truly are, have ever been, or will ever be.
How can any thought, any experience, any passion, any notion, whatsoever,
Cleave to that which is flawlessly perfect prior to all that is imagined?
* * * *
All pronouns are but the narrowing assumptions of imagination.
150
The figment of imagination is within all.
151
The first step in any religion is fabricating a supreme being,
And the second is dwelling in fear of its imaginary shadow.
* * * *
Reality is ceaseless and carefree, indivisible and inexplicable.
Only imagination ebbs and flows, starts and stops.
In reality, you are the you that you are,
Not the you that you imagine.
The soul of godness exists not in time,
But in the timeless nowness of eternal beingness.
To achieve full potential as human being, be a human … being.
152
The awareness is the ever-present witness.
The observer and the observed are indivisibly one.
It is only in imagination that dualistic notion finds lodging.
Consciousness, no matter how profound or creative,
Can never be anything more than imaginary.
153
The mind, collection of vague perceptions that it is,
Is no more than what has come and gone,
Even when imagining the future.
* * * *
The pretense of all identity is entirely imagined,
A collective collusion passed on to every generation.
The blind leading the blind to a synergistic conclusion.
155
Without the patterning, without the movement of imagination,
Without all the assumptions and assertions,
What are you, really?
158
To imagine yourself real, significant, permanent,
Is inevitably the source of great suffering.
* * * *
Is what we call growing up
Really any more
Than firing up the imagination
Into one nature-nurture caricature or another?
159
So many vast divides in the countless nuances
Of the imaginary nature of consciousness.
* * * *
All gods, all religions, all dogma,
Are nothing more than vain projections
Of the mortal mind born of time.
* * * *
All imperfection is born of imagination.
* * * *
A golden age of plunder and narcissistic decadence,
A ceaseless smorgasbord of the same old seven deadly sins,
– Wrath and greed and sloth and pride and lust and envy and gluttony –
Played out over and over in every way imagination allows.
160
All moments in this inexplicable theater are instantaneously come and gone.
Why waste the here and now pondering things already over and done,
All of them no more than the filament of imaginary perception.
Or feel unhinging trepidation, over unknowable futures
That must manifest before they can be faced?
161
Imagination is, within the vastness of awareness,
Both least and greatest common denominator.
162
Consciousness will never do more than speculate on how this mystery came to be.
All anyone can ever do is be in the moment, however it is playing out.
Time is born of mind, it is nothing more than imagination.
You were not, you are not, you need not care.
167
Earth is earth, water is water, wind is wind, fire is fire.
Once you, without doubt, without equivocation, fully understand this,
And that these forces interact in every way imaginable,
And that you are eternal witness to it all,
What else is there to know?
168
It is the dust of stars and shit of dinosaurs that has allowed you
The vision and insight to consciously bear witness
To this infinite mystery of a universe,
A creation entirely born
Of your own imaginary design.
169
Why would anyone ever imagine a god
That did not include them, everyone they know,
Or absolutely everyone and everything else
In which creation obviously abounds?
170
Science fiction can journey well beyond any pale,
But the limits of imagination are ever bound
By the physics of real-time invention,
And the moths lodged in the given wallet.
172
Regarding time travel,
How can that which does not exist
Ever be journeyed except through imagination?
This streaming instant born of senses and mind is all there is.
To pretend otherwise is just one delusion or another.
173
From the quantum dust of eternity you take form,
And through the senses a universe is imagined.
174
The greatest view of the history of all manifestation
Would be the fusion of every universe born of conscious design.
It would include a seamless wander through the matrix, through every nook and cranny,
To which the mystery of imagination is witness in every way possible.
All within the infinite, indivisible, timeless stillness
Of that source prior to all naming,
That source prior, even,
To that which many call god.
* * * *
The given universe kaleidoscopes around the sensory body,
Consciousness ceaselessly fabricating every sort of this or that, or that or this,
But, in reality, the awareness merely witnesses a seamless stream.
Vibration, limited by the boundaries of imagination.
* * * *
175
All imagination is illusion, samsara, the play of the quantum ether,
Earth … water … air … fire … in all its countless forms,
All its theaters of consciousness … across all time, across all space,
In however many dimensions this inexplicable mystery has deigned to create.
178
Despite the reality that it is all the same clay,
There are so many differences that we all feel drawn
To unendingly measure and judge in every way imaginable.
179
The grand assumption in all this is, of course,
That the universe and all the many others even exist,
As more than a figment of your sensory-inspired imagination.
180
The entire universe, even god,
Requires the given mind to be imagined real.
Without your myriad desires, your passion for existence,
Without the movement of your incessant thoughts, it would all be nothing.
As it is, has ever been, will ever be.
181
What is all self-image, what is all “me, myself, and I,”
What are all notions of birth and death, and all existence between?
What is everything known, what is everything unknown,
But an endless confabulation of imagination.
183
It is in the neural stirrings of consciousness that all bothers begin.
Such weight humankind has given to its indefatigable imagination.
* * * *
Consciousness is stagnating into memes of its own invention.
All are petrified mindsets, groupthink, propaganda,
Which can only magnify the disharmony
Over imagined differences.
185
The theater calls you to center stage in an infinity of ways.
We are all just kaleidoscoping mirages of imagination,
Bouncing off each other in every conceivable way.
186
Why should any stone remain unturned?
What is there to fear, really,
But the arbitrary
Twists and turns of imagination?
189
Fascinating that so many across this spinning pearl truly believe
That going out in some sort of martyred, tortured fashion,
Is righteous in the eyes of their imagined god.
* * * *
If this thing we call time really existed, would not you be able to halt it?
Or at least wander to and fro in the manifest here and there?
As it is, imagination is the only time machine,
And all it has going is the ethereal filament of perception,
Only as good as the wiring, and only for long as the gray matter holds fast.
190
The you that you every moment believe you are,
Is nothing more than a fabrication of imagination.
193
Cast out all that is time-bound,
All that is unreal, all that is imagination,
And you will discern your Self,
Very much alone.
* * * *
194
Once you discern all history, not just some of it, is imagined,
What is there to do but wander through it,
Wondering all the while
At all the much ado about nothing.
* * * *
It is all imagination, all make-believe.
We are all the Great Chameleon,
Playing out the Great Dream
In one form or another.
195
Your world is founded on the fabricated collusion of imagination.
196
Do you really know that, or just imagine you do?
198
Fairy tales will always be nothing more than fairy tales,
No matter how hopefully so many may imagine them real.
201
It is but a dream,
A streaming figment of imagination.
Abandon the quixotic mind and take up permanent residence
In the heart and soul of awareness.
203
In a mere blink of eternity, a life,
A figment of imagination, of vain notion,
A flurry of smoke in a gusty wind,
All the pleasure, all the pain,
All the understanding,
All the experience,
Perhaps even wisdom,
So quickly come and gone.
* * * *
Those who would know totality,
Those capable of the greatest vision,
Must get over their imaginary little selves.
204
That which is eternal, that which is by many called God,
Has never really been alive in more than an imaginary, figurative sense.
How can that which can never perish have ever been born?
All existence is of the same quantum mystery.
205
Imagination capers about an infinity of its own,
But just because some fiction can be etched on paper
Or thrown up on a movie screen does not make it possible.
Even the quantum essence is ultimately limited by its own nature.
That is why it is called quantum mechanics.
206
The quantum essence has no divisions,
No partitions, no boundaries, no borders, no restrictions, no limits.
It is indivisible, inseparable, undividable, blended, united, conjoined, indissoluble, inextricable.
There is no time, there is no space, there is only imagination feigning itself real.
* * * *
From the ordinary day-to-day, all myths, all legends, are fabrications of imagination.
All creation is very much born of the same quantum mystery.
Keep the balderdash in perspective.
207
Human beings are in reality very much the same as every other life form in any given universe..
We may be able to create and preserve and destroy in every imaginable way,
But all are of the same mysterious, inexplicable origin.
Absolutely, indivisibly, immeasurably equal,
Despite countless pride-filled,
Self-absorbed claims to the contrary.
* * * *
Every mind its own shifting quagmire of heaven and hell,
Based on a frame of reference ever born of imagination.
* * * *
In the times that are quickly advancing from the horizon toward us all,
Things across the globe will deteriorate and renew in every imaginable way,
From chaos to cooperation, from absurdity to sensibility, from agony to ecstasy,
As this world, fragmented by human pride, downshifts into a paradigm of a lesser way.
No one born into it can evade it, no one born into it can do anything but abide it.
208
You are and are not your ever-changing, imaginary universe.
It is within and without you, this dreamtime of an individual life,
That the endlessly beguiling Samsara of the senses has woven.
* * * *
The writer knows what is being written, but what are you reading?
The speaker knows what is being expressed, but is that what you are hearing?
Everything you see and touch and hear and feel and smell, is but a temporal, arbitrary translation
Of the subjective nature-nurture mind-body in which the sentience of awareness harbors.
The witness before which creation is filtered through the caprice of imagination.
The observer is never the observed, the observed is never the observer.
True objectivity is an impossible ideal, an unreachable brass ring,
Which even science can never more than pretend to attain.
209
You can attempt to run in any and every direction imaginable,
But no matter the way, the shape, the form, in which you are cloaked,
You can never ever, even for one single moment, hide from the witness within.
210
All this self-consciousness, all this self-imagery,
What a burden to each and every moment fabricate anew,
A complete and utter invention, an edifice of imaginary proportion.
Let go.
215
The death to all things imagined opens the portal to eternal life.
* * * *
Imagine nothing
216
It is imagination that causes itself to tremble and preen.
219
You are but a reflection of your imaginary world.
223
What we together imagine, is what it will be.
* * * *
Imagination, the only prison.
224
All limits are but attachment to imagination.
227
A still mind is imagination’s undoing.
228
Breathe in the duality and know all divisions are imagined.
* * * *
Just another hollow path to glory assembled by the whimsy of imagination.
229
There is only the quantum absolute shrouded in seemingly every imaginable disguise.
230
Memories are the ghosts of imagination.
231
There is the imaginary existence of consciousness: worldly, temporal, secular, profane, mundane.
Naught but a brief illusion, a brief collusion, a brief delusion of time and space.
But the real and only you, the real existence, the real eternal life,
Is the indelibly, indivisibly, absolute awareness.
You are the truth, the life, the way.
There is no other.
* * * *
Consciousness confabulates every genre of filter,
Through which it imagines its light show of a universe real,
Every streaming, dreaming, impromptu moment.
233
An intriguing existence to have no boundaries
Within one’s imaginary state of mind.
One need not do so much in the daily real-time,
If consciousness is given full reign, and an unaligned course.
234
Though you clearly realize you are not, have never been, will never be,
You must daily act out the attributes of imagined identity
In whatever way the windy dream prescribes.
* * * *
What is the point of judging anything
Once you have realized all things
Are but figments of imagination?
* * * *
The timeless immediacy of the ever-present nowness
Has never even once been fathomed by the vagaries of imagination.
Even a still mind completely attentive to the awareness
Cannot more than be of the flame eternal.
235
Without you to witness it,
The universe and everything in it would not be.
Imagination is a powerful god.
236
Imagination playing out every agony, every ecstasy,
But, in the final analysis, merely an agent of dreams.
240
Every context is unique.
Every situation constantly changes.
No one’s rendering of the universe is ever the same,
Yet prior to the myriad imaginary concoctions,
Every version is very much the same
In the most indivisible Way.
244
Challenging to admit, to face, to live, the fact, the reality,
That everything upon which you have based this life you call yours,
Is nothing more than a temporal fabrication of imagination.
245
In all its countless imaginary measurements,
The creation of knowledge is inevitably born of limitation,
Yet beyond the mind-made limits, the mystic observer, a true scientist,
Remains as equally attentive to the immeasurable now as s/he would any experiment.
The observer is the observed; the observed, the observer.
There is naught but one.
* * * *
What can really be born in the infinity of quantum nothingness,
For which birth as consciousness imagines it,
Is nothing more than a dream.
* * * *
Where would, where could, where should, awareness be,
Without a body-mind in which to imagine it's Self real and true?
246
Loving each other may have been
A goal beyond reach, a bar set a little too high.
How about we just try to tolerate each other
And all our vain, imagined differences?
How about we just try to get along,
Try not to destroy everything
Before Mother Nature
Somehow manages to off us?
* * * *
What is mine? What is not mine?
Who is the me who possesses anything?
Who is the me who does more than imagine
That anything can be gained, anything can be lost?
All possession is of such a short while,
No matter how long.
247
Every destiny happens of its own mysterious accord.
All are written in the sands of imagination.
Some stay a while, maybe longer.
Some slip into oblivion,
Never to be seen
Or heard from again.
C’est la vie and so it goes.
* * * *
You have been every particle, every form
Earth and water and air and fire have ever concocted.
Imagine it so … You are the Eternal One.
249
Every moment is born anew.
It is your own choice to imagine that time is real,
Your own choice to be free or not, your own choice to suffer or not.
There is no one, really, compelling you to do anything
That you do not voluntarily relinquish
Out of one fear or another.
* * * *
How can there ever be a line between within and without,
When neither are more than imaginary concepts
With no ultimate reality, whatsoever.
You are ever it, it is ever you,
There is no other.
250
We are all just kaleidoscoping mirages of imagination
Rippling into each other in every conceivable way.
252
Forget the world, forget the universe,
Forget everything you imagine you really are,
Everything you are not, have never been, will never be.
* * * *
Why would death really be all that different than falling asleep?
The only difference is that the imaginary you
Never wakes up again.
* * * *
We are all abodes of the same truth,
Despite our seemingly limitless intoxication
With every sort of imagined difference.
* * * *
Pray tell, where is this supreme being outside the Self?
This great creator, this absentee landlord,
This driver asleep at the wheel,
That so many are so convinced exists.
Where art thou, oh noble lord of heaven and earth?
Do you exist anywhere but in so many vain plays of imagination?
257
Dread is the worry over time,
Of what may yet come,
Of what may yet be endured,
All born of the ramblings of imagination.
Anticipation only creates unnecessary pain in advance,
Over things that may never even happen.
Best just to jump in a cold stream
Without thinking about it.
259
The same awareness, the same consciousness, permeates every imaginable difference:
Different bodies, different languages, different times, different spaces,
In order to play out a very-much-the-same mystery.
All the universe is a stage,
And all life forms merely players.
* * * *
We are all dancing in every way imaginable
In the same quantum hologram,
The infinite matrix
Of the inexplicable source.
260
How can you expect another to see the real you
When you, your Self, have never, can never see it, either?
It is naught but reflections, smoke and mirrors,
Only as real as imagination pretends.
264
The human paradigm is a ceaseless array of stories of every sort.
Perceptions, all partial, incomplete, steeped in the ephemeral well of imagination,
Is not everything more than a little hackneyed, more than a little passé at this point in the human epic?
Have not we done everything all but inconceivable times beyond counting?
265
A question for the sciences: How small is small? How big is big?
What exactly is ever being measured but the limitations of imagination?
267
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.
270
What difference could it possibly make
What others might think of you or anything else,
When it is really all you anyway, utterly, indivisibly alone.
When it is all nothing more than imagination inspired by the senses.
Pure, unadulterated, insatiable fabrication from the get-go.
* * * *
The road to contentment is an arduous, rocky journey,
Long and winding, full of every imaginable distraction.
276
Such aloneness cannot be imagined.
277
A collusion of imagination in the nothing-more-nothing-less of it all.
* * * *
Power, fame and fortune, all the poof of imagination.
* * * *
279
To imagine a god outside your Self is absurd.
282
Fewer unintended consequences when foul deeds are only imagined.
283
You are only imperfect if you imagine it so.
286
The mortal senses do not care what they see, hear, touch, taste, or feel.
It is only the mind, only imagination, that creates a universe of dualistic notion.
The body is but a vehicle in which the singularity plays an eternal game of hide and seek.
* * * *
You have never even once been what you think.
The imaginary self is no more than a fiction of consciousness.
Truly, you are simply awareness, as is everything else.
The singularity is nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
Imagine if you had only one sense:
Eyes or ears or nose or tongue or skin.
What would your universe be then?
287
You are the original source, the light that creates
All form and shadow, all meaning and purpose,
All duality in every imaginary way possible.
* * * *
The breath only flows in or out.
Benignly indifferent to the ways of the mind,
To all the imaginary whimsy through which it effortlessly sails.
288
All stories are equally born of imagination,
And all are eventually, inescapably forgotten.
Whatever life survives us, will not remember us.
A collusion of make-believe, nothing more.
290
Consciousness playing itself out through every form imaginable.
291
Ain’t imagination amazing?
294
Imagination is just a soliloquy of illusion’s delusion.
297
How can that which never dies ever be born but through imagination?
303
Some things you do for years, some for months,
Some for days, some for hours, some for minutes, some for moments,
And some you just scarcely even need to imagine,
And that is more than enough.
Reality is for those who lack imagination.
* * * *
You do not really exist
As more than a figment of imagination.
Everything you know, everything you think, everything you do,
Is merely built upon the smoky vapor of mind.
Nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
How can it be anything more than streaming sensation?
The eyes, the ears, the nose, the tongue, the skin,
Are nothing more than nerve endings channeling into the brain,
Which every moment imagines a conditioned translation of what is called a universe.
A solitary dream of consciousness, awareness playing it’s Self real,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
306
Words ceaselessly meander
Through the corridors of imagination,
Concocting every variety of fantastical enterprise.
307
Imagination is the trove of all agony, all ecstasy,
But it is truly nothing more than echoes
In the vacuum of eternity.
312
An ocean of nothingness,
Light shimmering upon every permutation
The timeless miasma of consciousness can conceivably imagine.
* * * *
Apply to the ever-streaming moment as many words and numbers as you like,
Time and space are nothing more than abstractions born of temporal imagination.
313
The ephemeral me-myself-and-I is but an intangible presence,
A glimmer of the unknown imagining all its dreaming real.
314
Be as indivisibly indifferent as all the stars
That it has taken to create this imaginary dream.
317
What are gods and demons, what are heavens and hells,
But the imaginary, stuporous vapor of fear-ridden minds.
322
And what point is there, really,
In wallowing in all this sentiment,
This passion, this imaginary pretense,
Of such an obviously impermanent nature?
323
Creation is an ever-unfolding, ever-evolving transmutation of energy.
Of the stardust, the elements, the quantum, the singularity,
Playing at existence in every way imaginable.
* * * *
When did you begin to imagine you were this mind-body?
That it belonged to you like all the other possessions
With which emptiness continually shrouds itself.
What point is there, really, in being attached
To its ever-changing corporeal nature
For even one singular moment?
* * * *
What ego could exist without attachment to the body-mind,
And all the perceptions that have been but imagined
In the streaming dream of absolute awareness.
324
It all means whatever you choose to believe it means until you clearly realize
Even the most profound vision of that prior to all imagination
Really means absolutely nothing at all.
* * * *
You already are the eternal life.
For what is there to pray?
What need for some imaginary god?
You alone translate creation into heaven or hell.
328
Consciousness is a vibrating lens
With countless filters crafted of every imaginable limitation.
Awareness is of the infinite source, witness within all things small to great, bound to nothing.
330
We are all cousins of the same puddle,
But that indivisible truth seems to do little
To heal all our innumerable differences,
Imaginary as all differences truly are.
334
To be anonymous within is the greatest challenge.
The fabrication of identity is ever-enticing for those
To whom the imagination of consciousness is real.
335
The history of humankind is an incalculable archive of every conceivable narrative.
There is really no greater or lesser story, all are equally steeped in imagination.
* * * *
Maybe what you want really is what your imaginary deity wants.
Maybe the mundane through which you traipse really is the plan.
But maybe, just maybe, the big picture is really not all about you.
* * * *
Quantum stardust somehow organized
To such an implausible degree as to pretend it is alive,
And when that was no longer entertaining, evolved into human beings,
In order to ceaselessly manufacture every sort of absurdly dualistic fiction imaginable.
336
Everything simultaneously streaming, unfolding one moment to the next,
In this immeasurable quantum matrix of a holograph universe.
Only your little slice of imagination is about you.
* * * *
Without the subtlety of great doubt, truth is veiled
Behind every conceivable whim of imagination.
* * * *
How can anyone imagine,
Much less deeply believe, they are,
Or ever could be, in any way, shape or form,
Separate from that which is totality?
335
Loneliness versus aloneness, duality versus singularity,
The sorrow of imagination versus the sovereignty of absoluteness.
There is really nothing to compare, when there is really nothing to be measured.
345
You came into this mystery with nothing,
You will leave it with nothing,
And there have really been nothing more
Than imaginary notions in every moment between.
346
Duality is nothing more than an arbitrary, meaningless concept,
Born of the sensory illusion that you are separate.
It has no ultimate reality whatsoever.
You are the primal essence that is indivisibly singular,
Unfathomable, absolute, prior to all imaginings born of consciousness.
347
How can there ever be a collective vision in the human epoch,
When every human being, every life form, is a universe unto it’s Self?
All are spun of the same awareness, the same quantum, the same singularity,
But consciousness, imagination, knows naught but bounds at every turn.
348
Your world, your universe, your self-metaphors, are all imagined.
Still the mind, close the eyes, the ears, all the other senses,
And the nothingness of awareness becomes apparent.
349
The swimmingness of the eternal nature,
Is the domain of all the other creatures of Eden
Who have managed not to naturally select themselves
Into the madness and absurdity of imagination.
350
Greet all fatuous claims with a skeptical ear.
Anything may be possible in this quantum dream,
But imagination often delves well beyond probability.
352
The indivisibility of the quantum chaos is order unto its Self.
What stability can there be in the theater of consciousness,
But what awareness through imagination conceives?
* * * *
We are all time-travelers of imagination.
Strap in and enjoy the ride as best ye may.
354
What a magical dream this garden world was before humankind began assaulting it
With its insatiable greed and unending self-absorption over every imaginable difference.
* * * *
355
The relatively agreeable thing about imagination,
Is that you can do absolutely anything your mind might dare.
Often much more enjoyable, and certainly less bother than the real thing.
356
Where would you be without your world, your universe, or it without you?
You imagine yourself separate, but where is the gap, where is the seam?
357
All translation must be observed with a dubious, discerning eye;
Especially the interpreter, the sorter, the filter, in your own inured mind.
Everything you perceive, translates through the biases of your frame of reference;
Entirely subjective, entirely slanted, entirely unique, entirely idiosyncratic, entirely alone.
Step back from your conditioning, and realize, from the dispassionate view of the quantum matrix,
That your entire existence, from womb to grave, is all nothing more than the huff and puff of imagination.
358
To be free of imagination,
Or not to be free of imagination,
The question of all questions.
360
Eternal means timeless.
Eternal life means timeless life.
To live a timeless life, you must surrender
The false identity born of imagination
To that nowness you truly are.
361
Just because you think it
Does not mean you have to do it.
The garden is for those who lack imagination.
It is in the moment-to-moment choices
That heavens and hells are created.
362
No mortal frame can be preserved in this ever-changing theater.
It, and the personality to which imagination is so attached,
Must inevitably, as all forms do, dissolve from the stage
On which it has so sincerely, and with such intensity, played.
363
As enlightening, absorbing, entertaining, and often oh so horrifying
As all the innumerable flavors of imagination can be,
It is ever merely a kaleidoscoping dream,
And really, in the ultimate sense,
Just does not even matter one scintilla.
364
Where is this vain, noble, notorious “I” we so readily assume real?
Is it the ever-changing body, the ever-changing identity?
Is it the rambling compendium of perceptions?
Can it even be the timeless awareness
Common to all things living?
How can there truly be
“Me, myself, and I”
In that infinity which is prior
To all forms fashioned of light and sound?
That which is ageless, formless, indivisible, sovereign, absolute.
That which has never even once suffered mortal birth,
Much less the pangs of imagined death.
* * * *
Every passing moment so fleeting, like an ever-burning fuse.
Every point of nowness gone as swiftly as it arrived.
Everything entirely a figment of imagination,
Merely a dream of the senses,
A theater of illusion.
365
It is all make-believe, a game of pretend, a lie to which most subscribe.
Every mind wraps around one security blanket or another
To hold fast to its imaginary, sensory reality.
Those whose fate it is to awaken,
See it for what it is,
And in time,
Make their way home.
* * * *
Why would you ever, even for a moment,
Believe yourself anything other
Than the primal force?
All identity
Is the fabrication of imagination.
366
This garden world has been spinning round and round for several billion years,
And the universe billions more than that, as it will be for eons more.
How can anyone seriously believe their imaginary notions
Are anything more than momentary wisps
In the grand totality of it all?
* * * *
What is required to awaken
Is to inwardly pay very close attention
In a non-intellectual, prior to consciousness way,
Until you very logically, without doubt, discern for your Self,
That you, the witness, the observer, are the observed.
All duality is the concoction of imagination.
369
What suffering consciousness so endlessly concocts.
End desire, release fear, soften the heart.
All differences are imagined.
370
No more than a dream,
No more than an imaginary theater,
With every possible agony, every possible ecstasy.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
Consciousness is the Bartertown of imagination.
No stone will be left unturned under all its suns.
371
What you cannot do or be, or perhaps should not do or be, imagine.
374
There is no existence in any creation, no matter the dimensions, that will not be but temporal illusion,
Because, no matter how hard it tries, Self, the grand witness in all things small to great,
Can never discern its true reality but through the reflections of otherness.
So, delude yourself in any and every way for all eternity,
It is ever the same dreamer dreaming,
Ever you in one imaginary holograph or another.
375
No matter how real it all seems, the you that you know
Is only the whim of imagination swirling about the senses.
An arbitrary, ephemeral set of perceptions from all get-go’s.
You have never been more than this every-moment streaming.
* * * *
It takes a strong, disciplined spirit
To sustain a steady course amid the rocks,
The sirens of imagination singing out every temptation.
376
Sometimes the mind become so clear
That it seems you have finally awakened for all eternity.
But then the murkiness of consciousness resumes its conditioned grooves,
And you must once again stumble about the convoluted labyrinth of your own vivid imagination,
Until the eternity of every moment breaks through the mists anew.
Perhaps someday you will stay there.
* * * *
This moment, this right now,
Is all there is, and there ain’t no more,
No matter how much imagination yearns it so.
377
Which now can ever crowd out or define another
When all are equally, timelessly here and gone forever.
It is only imagination born of mind that concocts time’s illusion.
378
If you are a demon in mind and body and spirit,
Then this dream world offers every opportunity
Your dearth of imagination may possibly obsess.
380
When the given existence gives way to inevitable departure of the container,
The vast cosmos that mind and senses have into dreamtime spun,
Will dissolve back into the indivisible quantum mystery,
The given mind-body is a one-time-only show,
Never really “yours” from the get-go.
This is the only imaginary you
That is, has ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
The quantum ground entices you with every imaginable trial
In order to gradually draw you deeper and deeper
Into the abode you have ever inhabited.
Any and all resistance is futile.
385
Everyone is going to likely need a little experience under the belt
Before they can comprehend that it is all imagined.
Few, if any, are born enlightened,
And fewer still with the inclination to live free.
386
It is through language that all conscious distinctions are made.
Prior to the articulation of imaginary self through personal pronouns,
Prior to the fabrication of knowledge, Eden was free of any dualistic notion.
There is no god, there is no devil, there is no heaven, there is no hell,
But through the ceaselessly absurd confabulations of mind.
* * * *
And what, really, is there to dread about the dissolution,
The evaporation, the oblivion, of the body and mind,
Of this imaginary identity of the manifest kind?
388
The you, you so earnestly imagine you are,
Is naught but a synergy of everyone and everything
Ever compiled in your brief, very temporal frame of reference.
* * * *
When you are out of kilter, when you need to recover some detachment,
When you need to reset, rekindle, retune, reorganize, recalibrate,
A greater perspective from one hellish moment or another,
It generally works to take a physician-heal-thy-self-time-out ride
On the flying carpet of imagination to some other shard of your dreamtime.
389
The great fear is imaginary, vain attachment
To the endless cravings of sensory body.
It has no ultimate reality, whatsoever.
* * * *
It is through imagination
That this universe is created.
In your own image, so to speak.
390
And God so hated the world he had created that he gave his only son
To spawn a religion that would assure its destruction
Through every absurdity imaginable.
391
A god born of imagination is not god.
392
It is only the mind and body that imagines experiencing anything.
You, the eternal observer, the awareness, remain ever indifferent.
* * * *
What is the whole kit and caboodle but a time-ridden reverie.
All meaning and purpose is imagined from first breath to last.
393
Going further than a couple zeros on either side of the decimal point
Is the abstract realm of theoreticians of one focus or another.
Scientific abstractions, as accurate as they may well be,
Travel through conjectures all but meaningless to daily existence,
Wherein consciousness must sound the depths of its own imaginary invention.
394
Traces of perception
Harvested by the senses,
Warehoused on a neuron trail
For imagination to fashion
Into another bit of time.
* * * *
From the first breath to the last,
What is the sensory mind really about
But hedonistic consumption of its universe,
And a narcissistic fixation with an imaginary self.
395
What is this inexplicable universe but an enormous aquarium filled to the brim with quantum essence,
Playing out every conceivable permutation consciousness might project, and physics allow.
Intelligent design, indeed: indivisible, total, sovereign, real prior to any perception.
The everything and the nothing, indelible well prior to anything imaginable,
And you, sovereign witness, born of the same enigmatic source.
* * * *
The world is an ocean of thoughts,
Crashing, swirling, drifting,
And You, the real You, the one and only You,
Is witness to it all, ever free despite all the clamor of the senses
Playing out in the imaginarium of the mind.
396
All that is done is simultaneously undone each and every moment.
Whether it is taken seriously or with a chuckle makes no matter, whatsoever.
No point of consciousness has ever been more than the timeless transience of imagination.
* * * *
You are imagined within me, and I within you.
Each of us fathoming our little dreamtime selves real,
Yet nothing more than ephemeral junctures of consciousness,
Nothing more than illusory drops in this indivisible quantum mystery.
397
That baggage you daily carry about in your mind,
Jam-packed with knowledge, likes, dislikes, fears, desires, worries,
Hopes, beliefs, regrets, all the this’s and that’s, that formulate your dreamtime universe,
You could just put it down for a bit, perhaps even never pick it up again.
But no, letting go of all your imaginary renditions,
That would be beyond the pale.
* * * *
Feel all the wounds and tension
Your vat of flesh and bones has endured
That you might arrive at this point of existence.
All these injuries are ultimately imagined.
Allow the ground to nurse and heal
Your twisted, misaligned spirit
Into the totality it truly is.
399
It is not your consciousness, my consciousness, or anyone else’s consciousness.
It is simply consciousness, playing out in every mind in every way imaginable.
* * * *
So many groups in this world claiming persecution by others
To justify their favor in the vain eyes of some imaginary god.
* * * *
The play of imagination requires collusion for the world of mind to abide.
As Shakespeare through Hamlet spoke: To be, or not to be, that is the question.
You need not participate in any of it if you have the courage to stand alone.
400
Why would you need for anybody
To know you, or know of you,
Once you discern your absolute nature?
Vanity is nothing more than imagination gone askew.
* * * *
What will happen to your world, your universe, after you die?
What will happen to everyone and everything after you are no longer present to witness it?
Imagine the dissolution of consciousness, of letting go of everything,
As everything is simultaneously letting go of you.
401
The nothingness offers little into which imagination can bite, ergo, much ado about it.
* * * *
A collusion of imaginary proportion.
* * * *
The senses are the veil that words sew with the robust thread of imagination.
403
All flaws are imagined.
Physician, heal thy Self.
Be whole, sovereign, true.
* * * *
How draining it can often be
To daily regurgitate and play out
This imaginary edifice of perception
That has no ultimate reality, whatsoever.
404
As fascinating and absorbing as history
And all things intellectual are,
They are all imagined,
And therefore, ultimately, unreal.
* * * *
There is no love, there is no hate.
There is no light, there is no sound,
There is only the singularity of awareness,
In which every other is every moment imagined.
405
Born again into yet another manifest form,
And through her innumerable sirens, the primordial mother
Beckons you with every imaginable enticement
To one rocky shoal or another.
407
Awareness is awareness,
Neither light nor dark, right nor wrong, strong nor weak, vibrant nor passive,
Kind nor cruel, sweet nor bitter, great nor small, good nor evil.
Absolutely indifferent in every way imaginable.
408
Attitude is a bell curve
Ranging from joy to sorrow.
Where anyone journeys on the curve
Is all about the play of imagination that manifests
In the given mind, in the given context, in the given moment.
409
Why do so many play out their existence fearing death?
Other than the discombobulated inanities inspired by imagination,
Death is simply not waking up to another tomorrow.
It is living and dying that are the bother.
410
Are you looking at things with fresh eyes, with an alert, serene mind,
Unfiltered, uncompromised, untethered, by the mirage of imagination?
411
Any earnest scientist inevitably discerns that the observer is the observed.
Measurement only goes so far before it breaches the boundaries of imagination,
The pale beyond which the eternal immeasurability is forever unknowable.
* * * *
You get told this, you get told that, everyone imagining every possible confabulation.
Consciousness is the wind of the mind, blowing every direction, inconstant in every way.
413
This vast edifice is entirely imagined.
It is not, has never, will never be truly real,
No matter how diligently you strive to believe it so.
414
All our imaginary universes are built upon frames of reference.
Each of us can only see, hear, touch, taste, and smell
What minds have been conditioned to know.
The mystery equally contains all.
* * * *
And why do you need to believe in anything concocted by mind?
Is not just being enough, without all the babble born of imagination?
415
God and Satan are the bogeymen of imagination.
* * * *
Freedom is in the doubting of everything imagined.
417
Dwell in that stillness, that awareness, that timelessness,
From which the dream of consciousness rises and falls.
Imagination, as present as it seems, is not eternal life.
* * * *
The ever-changing mortal frame
Is a mobile unit in which energy transmutes.
The mind is a neuron matrix in which imagination frolics.
419
Awareness is the one and only real you prior to consciousness.
Consciousness is nothing more than imagination
In the playground of the mind.
422
You really believe you have free will?
Only if you are in denial of all that has transpired
In the eons long before you were born.
What will play out will play out
As if choreographed
With unimaginable precision.
424
Why fight the insanity, the absurdity of a species immobilized by its imagination?
* * * *
What vanity to believe you must endure great suffering for some imaginary notion.
429
The natural laws govern all creatures, all things, from great to small.
Gibberish is not what makes the universe spin round and round.
There is not some deity tracking demerits on a naughty list.
Heaven, hell, is the world you every moment imagine.
You are ultimately on your own, completely alone.
Even your mother cannot shield you for long
From the long and winding road ahead,
On which the many agonies and ecstasies
Will reveal the lessons to which you subscribe.
So it goes … deal with it … get over it … move on.
435
All religion is unnecessary, pointless, superfluous, gratuitous.
Whether one god or many, not one is real, not one is true.
All are imaginary fabrications, collusions of the monkey-mind.
What dogma or idolatry can there be in the indivisible formlessness?
436
What you take for reality is merely a sensory streaming
Inspired by the imagination we label consciousness.
* * * *
The body-mind is a churning vat of brewing goo,
In which agony and ecstasy, both real and imagined,
Play out ceaseless twists and turns of every concoction.
* * * *
The persona is akin to a useless load of rocks,
Weighing you down with all its imaginary draughts,
Unreal, false, illusory, absurd, delusional, from the get-go.
438
What a near-infinity of hooks the universe begats
To perpetually seduce you into its illusory, delusional reality.
A streaming web of sensory-inspired passions of every imaginary flavor.
441
Any given personality is really nothing more than a byproduct
Of the response of consciousness to the winds of time,
And all the attachments to its imaginary state.
442
Each and every day, every human being in this dreaming
Wakes up and re-imagines a universe they believe real.
* * * *
What contortions those cemented into one meme or another
Will maintain to rationalize, to justify, their imaginary universe.
449
Even when you are alone with nothing to do,
It is challenging for the whimsy of imagination
Not to carry you out sortie after sortie into the fray.
450
Ultimately, this reverie is nothing more than a passage of imagination.
Ever-kaleidoscoping perceptions to which you are so attached.
The key to freedom is in the stilling of the busy mind
And a clear, discerning, fearless detachment,
Toward the infinity of sensory hooks
Playing out within and without.
451
On a small spinning orb in an outback of a brief manifestation,
Vanity arose in a noisy flurry for barely a whisper of the time it imagined real.
Before relatively quickly dissolving back into the indivisibility of its fundamental quantum nature.
Such is the outcome of all imaginary forays inspired by the theater of consciousness,
In the likely very rare moments that it manages to evolve into being.
452
The mind is the immeasurable playground of quantum imagination.
All history, all science, all art, all vocation, all trivia, all anything,
Is but a perpetual dance in a matrix too vast to fathom any edge.
* * * *
What is consciousness but a dreamy cloud of imagination,
Of dualistic notions inspired by the sensory creation.
One may clearly distinguish reality though it,
But the dream in itself is not the truth.
454
All emotions are nothing but sensations to which imagination attaches value.
* * * *
… eternity … birth … an imagined existence … death … eternity …
455
You are both the protagonist and antagonist of your own dream,
Your own jailer in an imaginary prison built of mind and senses.
456
However immense and majestic the vision these words may attempt to convey,
Its reality is so much greater than even the greatest imagination
Will ever be able to even remotely imagine.
* * * *
You are born now, you live now, you die now.
Time is just a temporary state of imagination.
457
What imagination sows, imagination reaps.
458
Across the universe, throughout eternity,
There are an inestimable number of perceptions
Within each and every imaginary moment,
From each and every imaginary angle.
So boggling as to make any mind
Singularly serene in wonder.
460
It is not original sin, it is original separation,
And it happens every instant one forsakes the eternal moment,
Every time one embraces the pretense of knowing,
Imagined by the mind bound in time.
* * * *
Any definitions of that which is mystery,
As ludicrous as all descriptions ultimately are,
Should always be as nebulous as imagination allows.
462
So absorbed by the space-time continuum of your little dream,
That only during rare moments in the given here and there,
Will you detach from the mind, a bag of neuron goo,
Seemingly filled with every imaginable inanity
Born of the ceaselessness of consciousness.
464
Fear is the harvest of all the agony and ecstasy imprinted in the mind and body.
Transcend it via the quantum field where imagination is but a flurry of stardust.
* * * *
The mystery of this vast creation is a beyond-the-pale enigma.
The Greatest Story is at best to be surmised, never told.
All notions are but speculations of imagination.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothings but.
* * * *
The quantum matrix programming is indivisible,
Indelible, indifferent, inexorable, indissoluble, indefatigable;
Intelligible only through the incisive code-breaking
Of mathematics, art, music, linguistics,
And other paradigms intuited by imagination.
* * * *
The newborn is but simple awareness.
The identity that will gradually in imagination bloom,
Will be the mind-body’s nature-nurture adaptation to the sensory play.
The means to survive, to endure physically and psychologically,
The dreamtime into which it has been by chance cast.
465
The monkey-mind lays claim to every imaginable choice of behavior.
What rock has not been turned myriad times well beyond remembering?
* * * *
Imagination sallies forth,
Always behind, no matter the moment.
The collusion putters on of its own synergistic whimsy.
* * * *
The manifest space-time continuum is not linear.
It is a boundless, indivisible, multidimensional, quantum matrix,
Eternally singular, inexplicable, but for imagination’s dynamic, time-bound potential.
466
All monkey-mind interpretations are but imaginary, subjective, self-absorbed confabulations
Of the egocentric-ethnocentric-geocentric-chronocentric-heliocentric-cosmoscentric kind.
467
Despite the muddle humanity has in every way imaginable made of it,
How can it possibly be that all creation is not fashioned of the same source?
All the creeds ever devised across all eternity cannot negate this one indelible truth:
That the quantum in one is the quantum in all, and the quantum in all is the quantum in one.
No one possesses the ultimate indivisibility any more than anyone or anything else,
Regardless of the incalculable machinations of the undiscerning multitudes
Given over to every imaginable paradigm under any given sun.
Do not be drawn into delusion by the fog of words.
Monkey-see-monkey-do is not bona fide.
* * * *
That prior to consciousness is awareness.
Awareness is timeless; consciousness, time.
Awareness is still; consciousness, movement.
Awareness is reality; consciousness, imagination.
Nothing less, nothing more, nothing but.
468
All sense of persona, of self,
Is a temporal fabrication of imagination,
Of the winds of consciousness blowing every which way.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
469
Imagine, if you will, a poker table with Santa Claus,
The Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, Peter Pan, and Jesus,
All wearing baseball caps, chomping on cigars, sipping whiskey.
* * * *
Bother that it is for those who must endure the mortal aspect,
The quantum essence cannot know its Self but through creation of the other,
In as many ways as possible as often as possible, to better reflect upon all things imaginable.
470
Wisdom is the upshot of a great deal of pleasure, a great deal of pain, in every way imaginable.
It is the outcome of having watched patterns over and over enough
To well know their inevitability.
* * * *
Are you the identity to which you so resolutely cling,
Or the ephemeral awareness that perceives it all,
Prior to consciousness, prior to imagination?
* * * *
It seems far less likely that humans were made in the image of some deity,
Than they are fashioned of the infinite imagination of singular quantum design.
471
We are all patterns seeking some sort of respite, some sort of reprieve,
From whatever purgatory the sensory-mind every twinkling imagines real.
The promise of god, of heaven, of eternal bliss, however hollow, is an easy sell.
472
Regarding destiny: Do you choose it? Or does it choose you?
Is there free will, chock-full of options, in this theater of space and time?
Or is the entire reverie nothing more than an indivisible, juggernauting recording,
An infinite matrix witnessed by the ultimate you in every way imaginable?
* * * *
What irony that in the face of an incredibly astonishing mystery,
Humankind has lost itself in an absurd collusion of every possible vanity.
An entirely imaginary invention, this myopic notion of a separate, individual persona.
A duality sparked in consciousness when it began its evolutionary spin in the jungles of long ago.
474
From the neurology of the primal brainstem, the dawn of consciousness
Gradually evolved into the imaginary perception of a separate self.
The inherent collusion of a species on its journey of survival.
In the nothing more, nothing less, nothing but of it all,
The challenge is to move on to the final chapter,
To discern the unconditional singularity,
The origin of all things quantum.
Whether or not that will ever happen
Will be in some far-future-stay-tuned telling.
476
Why maintain any sense of fabricated self, any sense of imaginary identity, at all?
To pretend you are other than the awareness of the eternal moment,
That which is real, that which is true, that which is all,
Why would you want to do such a thing?
* * * *
Here you are: eating, drinking, sitting, walking, running;
Living out each and every day, sleeping through each and every night.
Here you are, witnessing the sensory dream playing out every moment in your mind.
Here you are seeking meaning and purpose in a vista that offers none
But through imaginary intercourse with perception.
477
What is humankind but an assortment of strands of evolving-devolving chromosomes
Rushing about in every way imaginable, often pretending all the while,
That its little play of consciousness is somehow important
To a cosmos likely indifferent to its existence.
* * * *
Dissolve back into the quantum womb of your origin.
Free of all desire for existence, free of all fear of existence,
Discern the unicity, be the unicity, prior to all born of imagination.
478
Pardon me for inquiring, but why do some humans …
Seem to loathe nature and her many creations?
Become so determined to control others?
Go to such extremes to feel happy?
Believe gold so important?
Seem to delight in hurting others?
Partake in so many preposterous notions?
Corrupt the world with so many unproven creations?
Despise so many others simply because they abide by different values?
Become so vain about their bodies that they cloak them with every imaginable fashion?
Focus on so many differences when there is so much more in common?
Acquire so much more than they could ever need or use?
Bear children in whom they have little interest?
Create a world so indigent and forlorn?
Learn so little from history,
And are so blind to its reckoning?
480
The mystery, the unknowable you truly are, is utterly anonymous.
Identity is but the temporal fabrication of consciousness,
Of imagination, and its secular attachment to form.
The source, the awareness, is prior to time, prior to mind,
And the rare who fully discern it, abide in the unassuming solitude,
The sovereign, unconditional, indivisible, immortal aloneness of eternal life.
481
All knowledge, all assumptions, all speculations,
Are they really anything more than time-bound distractions
From the eternal seamlessness of the nothingness
That can never be more than imagined.
483
If you break down existence into its many parts, sub-parts, and sub-sub-parts:
Food, sex, work, play, cutting the nails, trimming the verge, agony and ecstasy, ad infinitum,
Going round and round in the same groove, doing the same old thing over and over,
What would really be so enticing about existing in some imaginary forever?
The manifest dream must renew its Self, else it will die of ennui.
484
The mind being what it is, how possible is it to ever be completely free of the mindset,
The meme, the filter, the conditioning, the patterning, the habituating, the brainwashing,
Of any given body, any given family, any given group, any given culture, any given origin?
Imagination requires one starting point, one underpinning or another,
From which to launch into the dream of time.
* * * *
What is it to be a man? What is it to be a woman?
What is it to be absorbed, captivated, in some between?
Each and every human being across the world, across time,
Grappling with their reality at the center stage of the given world.
None really right, none really wrong, just imagination having its way.
485
No matter how you will it so, you are of the quantum genesis,
And can never in more than in the filament of imagination part.
486
The frame of reference, that bag of knowledge, that stew of perception,
Is but a phantasm of consciousness, a.k.a., imagination.
What you really are is prior to it all.
Discern it, and be as free as the moment allows.
* * * *
Who knows who, who knows what, who knows where,
Who knows when, who knows why, who knows how,
But the sensory consciousness you imagine you are.
490
Who, what, why, when, where, how are you,
But imagination attached to its manifest dream.
Still the many thoughts the senses inspire,
And be the anonymous, faceless one.
* * * *
What is memory but electrical impulses whizzing down neural trails?
What is emotion but biochemical secretions oozing through membranes?
It is imagination’s translation of sensation that navigates any given existence.
491
Every mind imagines a world to which its nature-nurture,
Its capacities and limitations, its frame of reference, subscribes.
No one can be more or less than what the genetic lottery has allotted.
Any rubber band, no matter how elastic, can only stretch so far.
492
Human existence as it is known
Is about the accumulation of imaginary conception.
To release the mind that attains is to relinquish all to the eternal nowness,
The timelessness that is as near to the one and only ultimate reality
As awareness through mindfulness is capable of realizing.
It is to discern that which is prior to all form,
That mystery you truly are.
493
Be the world, the cosmos, everything you imagine it might contain.
Do not be held back by the innumerable limits of your given conditioning.
Stand alone, absolute, indivisible, inscrutable, the zenith of your panoramic view.
494
We all have an individual worldview, a unique universe of our own making.
All are equally authentic in their own indelible, imaginary way,
And yet all are created equally of the same origin,
The same inexplicable mystery.
There is no way it can ever be truly changed.
It may gradually evolve into something somewhat dissimilar,
But its roots will always harbor the conditioning of its nature-nurture beginnings.
495
The human paradigm, perhaps the paradigm of all manifest, conscious existence, created of awareness,
Is about consumption of the given sensory feed: sights, sounds, tastes, smells, textures.
Experiences of every imaginary scope, filling every conceivable moment.
Meditation is a state of beingness, less about consuming,
Than it is riding the kaleidoscoping wave,
Impassively witnessing the inexplicably timeless mystery,
That which has neither beginning nor end, cause nor purpose, rhyme nor reason.
* * * *
To discern the awareness prior to consciousness,
You must look prior to all the perceptions, all the memories,
Prior to all the thoughts drifting willy-nilly in the smoke of imagination.
Consciousness is but an imaginary veil, behind which is ever the essence you truly are.
496
As limited as any given manifestation must be to dream any existence,
The ultimate you – omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent –
Is within all creation and the space between.
Why would anyone imagine it to be anything less?
498
We humans are all animals here,
Mammals with consciousness enough, with imagination enough,
To perceive the sensory play in such a way as to fabricate the notion, the absurdity, of individuality.
Animals with a beyond-the-pale aptitude for communication and tool-making.
But animals, nonetheless, animals, nonethemore.
* * * *
Go back to the you before the mortal body, and forward to the you after it has fallen away.
Of what importance is this ever-changing vessel, this vague set of imaginary notions, really?
499
Nothingness is the eternal constant within which every imaginable variable,
Each and every one fashioned of the quantum essence and its ever-shifting nature,
Ever condenses and evaporates, like clouds in the sky, in its timeless here now.
It has been called by many names, to which it has never even once answered.
* * * *
What is any history but what some storyteller’s imaginary frame of reference,
Coupled with the translation of your frame of reference.
Very dubious from the get-go.
* * * *
What is the body but a bag of perceptions,
Of memories, of desire, of fears, of agonies, of ecstasies,
All cavorting in eternity’s indivisible stillness in every way imaginable.
500
How ludicrous to imagine that we really know anything,
That all our speculations mean diddly-squat,
That all our ceaseless wordplay
Is any more than another form of wind.
* * * *
The difference between any you and any me is all in our heads, all in our minds.
Our perceptions, our imagination, our relentless emphasis on the ever-kaleidoscoping universe,
Playing out every timeless moment, bewildering us all with its inexplicable veil.
And who has the unshakable witness behind the curtain ever been,
But the same you that is me, the same me that is you.