The Ponderings of Yaj Ekim
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.
* * * *
Every existence is entirely unique,
In this grand, magical theater of time and space.
The unfolding of the song of mystery is a creation extraordinaire,
In every way, shape and form into which the mystery,
Has spontaneously, choicelessly unfolded.
You are one of countless dreams,
All witness to the totality,
That which is prior to all perception,
That which is absolute, both within and without,
That which is real, that which is true, that which is ever You.
2
No religion, no creed, no dogma in this world, or any other, speaks for that which is God.
They are all like blind men arguing over their limited perceptions of the elephant.
The dream is ever a mystery; none have ever owned it, and none ever will.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Immortality is not found in the body,
Nor in the time-bound legacies of history books.
It is ever in the seamless awareness of the indivisible moment.
It is the eternal You, that peers out through the senses,
Into the dreamtime they and mind create.
* * * *
Every instant is an orchestrated streaming,
Of creation, preservation, destruction,
The trilogy of dreamtime’s ever-present dynamic.
Name it whatever you will, the source of this boundless mystery,
Is equally the same for the smallest as it is the greatest.
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.
* * * *
We each play out our little role,
In the unfolding dreamtime of future-past.
After the ending, it will be as it was before the beginning,
But for the unfolding now, it seems real enough to do whatever calls us,
In that which is, in the largest sense, the Song of God.
* * * *
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.
6
Abandon ye all futures, all pasts, all wants, all dreams, all hopes.
Right here, right now, in the awareness of the ever-flowing present moment,
Is the eternal life you pursue, the only existence you will ever have.
But you must die, in the most figurative sense, to discern it.
7
Strolling the infinity within,
Does not require anything special.
Wear anything, or nothing, if you prefer.
Sit, lay, stand, walk, or sprint anywhere you please.
Name it whatever comes to mind, if you must.
It is always the same, ever unchanging,
Ever here now, to delve or dive into,
The source prior to all dreams.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
What there is ultimately to learn,
In this quickly passing dream,
Is well beyond any karmic notion.
It is the free, untainted, uncarved Youness,
That You truly are prior to any and all experience,
All that was immaculate before time began its sculpting.
None are required to conform to any state of mind,
But through the notions of consciousness.
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 still, ever watchful.
The eternal witness, watching its Self dream.
* * * *
It is the divide within, that You must make whole.
It is the war within, with which You must make peace.
Awareness is seamless; without rends, without adversaries.
It weathers the assaults of the mind-body in time, without effort.
Bound by no dream, it is indifferent to life, it is indifferent to its end.
It is You in the truest sense, permeating all that is, all that is not.
11
You can only know, You can only witness, the dreaming the mind-body perceives.
But realize, your version is but one reflection, one resonance, one facet,
Of this infinite, mysterious, ever-kaleidoscoping crest-jewel.
And of its unknown origin, You can only experience,
The infinite nothingness, at the core within,
And awaken to the clear certainty,
That it is really all You.
* * * *
There are really no masters, no disciples,
Only a dreamtime, chock-full of dreamers.
* * * *
Always a strange thing,
To wake up to another day,
To watch consciousness reboot,
To wander out into the ever-streaming,
Kaleidoscoping, sensory dream.
Will wonder never cease?
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.
* * * *
We are all limited in one way or another.
It is the unwitting nature of the manifest dream.
The uncarved block inevitably becomes a rutted road.
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.
We just got so hornswoggled by our own imagination,
That most just stopped seeing that it was everywhere and everything.
And anyone who does not play along with the collusion,
Is considered a child, confused, 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.
* * * *
This is what it is really all about.
It is all You.
There is nothing more, nothing less.
There is no greater state than the timeless simplicity of awareness,
The reality through which all dreams play out,
In any given dimension.
* * * *
This brief little dream is just a speck,
Of the totality which reigns all dreams, all forms.
It is merely a rippling of a distraction from your eternal nature,
The truth of which You are always, whatever the form.
16
It is real enough while you are dreaming it.
We will all be evaporating soon enough.
17
Dreamtime … dreammind … dreamjourney … dreampath …
Dreampast … dreamfuture … dreamnow … dreamfate …
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Atoms, molecules, particles, quanta,
All just names for that which can never be seen,
But are nonetheless the building blocks, the underpinnings,
The bedrock upon which all creation is founded,
The infinite nothingness,
Upon which the manifest is spun,
The stage upon which You witness your Self,
Playing every form across the dream of time and space.
22
The mortal body is the sanctuary, the temple, the portal, in which awareness immortally resides.
It is ever-changing, replete with every sort of irregularity, and fated to one day dissolve.
But for a relatively brief perception of time, always within the unending moment,
There is the opportunity for the temporal consciousness, the dream weaver,
To play out whatever capacity and limitation and inclination allow.
* * * *
This manifest universe,
Can be nothing more than a reverie,
Because its makeshift foundation is quantum sand.
All dreams are marinated in vanity.
23
Picture this immense cosmos an immeasurable matrix,
And all we organisms, from small to great, 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 realize.
* * * *
Some want to spend their lives,
Preoccupied with loving or hating others.
What difference, really, in the ultimate dream of it all?
Perhaps that which is the quantum source, both angel and demon,
Merely seeks to play out every possible experience,
The menu of consciousness offers.
Who knows, really?
Any of us can only extrapolate,
The given dream, to one speculation or another.
24
There is no such thing as time; birth, life, death, are but a dream.
There is only awareness; the You, that has ever, yet never been.
* * * *
No need to make pompous tripe about the mystery.
The challenge is merely to see, to comprehend,
That it, is everyone and everything, including you
And then decide how to play out the pretense of free will,
For whatever dreamtime remains, in this inexplicable mortal sojourn.
Death is merely evaporating, back into the nothingness, that nothingness ever is.
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 demonic 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.
* * * *
Sometimes you create.
Sometimes you preserve.
Sometimes you destroy.
Such is the dream of it.
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
We may all be one at the indivisible quantum level,
But we are all still bound by the limitations of the mortal dream.
Confined in a container whose primary directive is to play the monkey-mind.
Some may completely give themselves over to perpetual agape,
But for most, it is ever a moment-to-moment challenge,
To resist all the passions mortal cuisine offers.
* * * *
The universe is a touchy-feely mirage,
Inspired by the senses, wielded by imagination.
A momentary three-dimensional play.
Nothing more, nothing less.
* * * *
An 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
Stardust somehow morphed into existence,
And it could never more than speculate, how it all came to be.
But rather than be happy and content, not knowing,
It managed to argue, to struggle, to 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 variety of delusion.
31
Another day of pretending, colluding, feigning,
This touchy-feely three-dimensional dreamtime real.
Another day of suiting up, in the sensory cloak of illusion.
* * * *
All you think has happened, never really happened.
Dreams are only dreams, no matter how real they seem.
What you truly are, is nothing mind can ever begin to know.
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 is the fundamental awareness in all things.
You, who is 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.
* * * *
What suffering to be attached to a dream,
No matter how real, how tangible it seems.
* * * *
It is ever and always the same awareness within.
Only the play of imagination cloaks it otherwise.
38
We must all play out the consequences of the given dreamtime.
Heaven or hell, same moment, just different qualities of mind.
39
Are you the dream, streaming?
Or the stream, dreaming?
* * * *
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 imaginary notions born of one geographical assumption or another.
* * * *
The awareness at the source of all manifestation will ever wander along,
With whatever dream consciousness wishes to play out.
Creation, preservation, destruction,
You choose.
* * * *
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 and 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
The journey of awakening to the indivisible seems an individual struggle,
An awareness of the vast totality to which the human species,
May or may not be capable of collectively partaking,
Before the temporal dream of consciousness,
Reaches its inevitable conclusion.
Oh well and so it goes.
Never really mattered anyway.
* * * *
As many grooves, deep or shallow,
That one may have etched upon life’s soundtrack,
It is still nothing more than a brief collection of vague memories.
That is truly all it is, has ever been, will ever be.
In the dreamtime of any given universe.
Wishing vanity to count for more,
Will never ever make it so.
* * * *
What is human history but ceaseless struggle,
Over whose imagination should reign the moment.
Who was the very first to come up with the fanciful notion,
That we 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
How much attention can be focused on any given dream?
The senses furnish an all-but-infinite, ever-streaming, lightshow of a universe,
And from that, even the sharpest of minds, can only briefly harbor,
The vaguest perception, of a very finite existence.
* * * *
Most partake fully the agonies and ecstasies of consciousness,
But only the rare scrutinize its nature closely enough,
To discern its source far more interesting.
* * * *
The perceptions of any given moment,
Are quickly recorded into subjective memories,
Wherein time is contrived and projected,
Into what dreams may come.
This we call living.
* * * *
Existence is a smoky reverie,
Really nothing more than consciousness,
And the ever-churning elements,
Colluding themselves real.
* * * *
History, a bottomless grab bag,
In the vast immensity of imagination.
Nothing more than whatever comes to mind.
* * * *
It takes a great deal of mettle,
To doubt to the essential core of awareness.
Immortal fare is not for the meek who will inherit the earth,
And the dreaming it every moment inspires.
* * * *
Existence as it is known, is nothing more than a foggy swirl of perceptions.
Eternal life is timeless awareness, free of memory, free of known.
It is the end of passion’s craving for any form or concept.
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.
* * * *
Another story.
Stories, stories, stories.
All filled with the same this, the same that.
And what have we really created in our dreamtime ascendancy,
But unprecedented vanity and pathos.
46
The universe is an absorbing dream.
Leave no stone that interests you unturned,
Until the novelty of turning of stones loses its sheen,
And you are at last content to merely be, whatever the weather.
47
How you engage in your dream,
Is truly your own affair, and always has been.
What any other may think about it,
Is only as important,
As the weight you give it.
* * * *
To fathom complete and utter freedom,
One must be very at rest in the momentary awareness.
Eternal life is not for those still seduced by the dream of manifest time.
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
You could do this,
Or … you could do that.
Or that or this … or this or that.
Or you could just stay at home all alone,
And do absolutely nothing-nada-nichts-ikke noget.
It is your fate your dream, to play out,
However you will.
* * * *
You only imagine you exist.
You only imagine you are that mind-body.
You only imagine you are of this world, of this universe.
Is anything born of imagination ever more,
Than a quickly passing dream?
Empty vessels blaring, spewing cacophony,
Echoes of consciousness playing out such paltry dreams.
* * * *
Zen-ish riddlers abound in every moment,
Every corner of this temporal, worldly dreamtime.
For ignorance to awaken to their paradoxical irony, however,
Is too unlikely, to even bother imagining for more than a pittance of time.
50
The one thing of which You can be very certain, across all time, across all space.
Is that You are not at all separate from anything, in any way, at any moment.
How do You discern this? Because You are the dreamer dreaming it all.
You are the seamless, singular awareness, the one and only reality.
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
A very ubiquitous, mysterious reality,
In which every life plays out a little dream,
On a maze of stage that meanders this way and that,
Until in the death of breath, do they part.
* * * *
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.
54
The big lesson humankind is still hard-pressed to learn, hard-pressed to even begin to grasp,
Is that absolutely everything is connected at every level across the board.
Each and every particle working, playing, dancing together,
Every simultaneous, unrehearsed moment,
To create this grand dream.
That so many take it all for granted,
And deceive themselves and others in so many ways,
That we have become so absurdly disjointed, is folly beyond the pale.
* * * *
How many instances have you given heart and mind and spirit,
To one thing or another, only to watch it all go badly?
So it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
It is really only a mysterious dream.
Some get a pleasant reverie;
Others a dark nightmare.
Discern the greatest context,
And be content, be at peace, be in grace,
That it was your mystery-given destiny, to play it so.
* * * *
From the quietude of boundless slumber, awareness awakens,
And gazing into the pool of memories, stokes the dream into another day.
Dust to dust, a few breaths, a few thoughts, between.
Let the vanity have its way.
55
You are, in this aphoristic collection,
As well as in countless other handiworks,
Across this dreamy theater of time and space,
Made aware of your essential, indivisible nature.
Gifts, from its truest, most earnest witnesses.
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.
* * * *
It is suffering that compels us to scrutinize our universes more closely.
We were all immortal before the manifest dream inspired us to doubt otherwise.
What a master teacher, pain, in all its ever-changing ways and means,
For as long as its lessons can be endured, and survived.
60
Ultimately, there is no evil, there is no sin, there is 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.
* * * *
What is within? A formless sea.
What is without? A formless sea.
The mortal container is but a dream,
Born of the sensory mind.
There is no other.
The formless,
Is source to all.
* * * *
All vanity is absolutely insignificant to that which is prior to time.
The entire quantum universe is but an immeasurable, timeless ocean,
In which all manifest forms appear and disappear in the smelter of what is.
You are simply one witness, playing out a mortal reverie, for but a brief while.
61
Imagination is the time machine.
Travel where you will, Pilgrim.
* * * *
Who will be the last historian,
The last chronicler of the human paradigm?
Who will be the last to discern, to set down all that has passed,
Since the first recording of humanity’s dream?
62
Waking up to yet another dreamy day,
Trapped in a body racked with one bother or another,
The mind willy-nilly between agony and ecstasy, exasperation and rapture.
Curious how thought can play the gamut between amusing and tiring from one moment to the next.
What ceaselessly pointless vainglorious absurdity, this much ado about nothing.
The appeal of ever returning to this manifest dreamtime,
Has pretty much run its course.
* * * *
“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, or just not caring.
* * * *
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.
65
Truth is that which is prior to consciousness,
Prior to all the metaphors that create as many universes,
As there are seeds to sow their dreamy reality.
* * * *
All consciousness is of arbitrary design.
The only absolute is the eternal awareness,
Prior to all dreams born of a sensory nature.
66
What a thing to spend an existence,
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?
67
It really does not matter, one speck, one smidgen, one iota,
What anybody thinks or believes about anything.
You have always been nothing more,
Than the awareness of the eternal present,
Never the dream born of the mind bound in time.
68
Not everyone wants to play this silly little human game.
They are often called homeless, but some are more at home than most,
Accepting what is offered, witnessing what there is to witness, wandering as time allows,
Breathing in, breathing out, content to merely abide the dream.
* * * *
This fleeting, ever-changing dream of time,
Is just another space between the lines,
In history books yet to be written.
* * * *
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.
70
Without skin, what could you feel?
Without eyes, what could you see?
Without ears, what could you hear?
Without nose, what could you smell?
Without tongue, what could you taste?
Without all functioning simultaneously,
How could your dreamtime universe be?
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 deity 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.
74
Who or what is anyone or anything but You,
Disguised in the wrappings of the streaming senses.
What duplicity You have over and over played with your Self,
Across the countless dreamscapes, of no one knows how many creations.
75
It is indeed more than a little curious, how so many,
So-called religious collectives all across this dreamtime world,
Truly believe their fabricated god favors only them.
As if any supreme being would really care,
Who wins a meaningless game.
76
What siren-like enticement it is, to believe memories,
Any more than dead things, when the only thing that is,
Is this very ungraspable moment of still, timeless awareness.
The actuality is that you are not, you were not, you will never be.
You need not care about the dreamtime in which quantum mind dwells.
* * * *
Sooner or later the given existence will reach its termination, as all dreams do.
May as well dance as best you can, for as long as the cadaver is able.
What any of us may endure as we head into our endgame,
Is a choiceless reckoning that all must face alone.
To cast off before your time may or may not be an option,
Depending on disposition, opportunity, or sense of obligation to others.
Not easy to let go of existence, when you have spent so much of it struggling to survive.
Yet, what point is there in allowing this three-dimensional dreamtime to meander into some nightmare?
What obligation does anyone have to live out a reverie, for which they did not volunteer?
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, ineffably 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.
* * * *
You are the body; you are not the body.
You are the world; you are not the world.
You are the universe; you are not the universe.
You are the dream; you are not the dream.
You are everything; you are nothing.
Change is the way of all things.
Irony and paradox rule.
* * * *
An ever-changing quantum mirage of time and space,
Within a mind, within a form, within a world, within a universe,
A kaleidoscoping touchy-feely, three-dimensional dream,
In which you are every moment in, but never of.
* * * *
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
Since all creation’s unknowable beginning,
The clock of eternity has ticked away across the cosmos.
Every part and particle of every passing moment has been necessary
For the temporal dream of consciousness to reach this indivisible twinkling in time,
That which is both within and without the only You that has ever been.
* * * *
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 smallest to the greatest,
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.
82
The universe created by the senses,
Will draw you again and again into the grand illusion.
For the unsteady mind still mesmerized by the pitter-patter of time and space,
The waking-sleeping-waking of it, is ever a Sisyphean challenge.
It requires great discipline to weather the dream,
And be the momentary awareness,
Prior to consciousness.
83
How bizarre it all is to be lobbed into an existence,
In which every sort of heaven and hell is played out within and without.
An ethereal, touchy-feely, three-dimensional, quantum-matrix of a dream, until death do you part.
84
It is through the play of consciousness that the mystery,
Witnesses your translation of manifest dreamtime.
The many mythological stories explaining creation,
Are simply tales attempting to explain the inexplicable.
How unfortunate so few are interested, much less capable,
Of perceiving beyond the attachment to one identity or another.
What an eternal garden this world might be if idealism was set aside,
And wisdom and insight, gained sway, in this theater of human invention.
* * * *
Newborns across the world,
Are cast into a swirl of concepts,
To which they must subscribe or perish.
In one fashion or another, the choiceless nature,
Is carved by the many choices, each and every one of us has,
Throughout the dream of time, been called to make.
85
Discerning the indivisible, You realize,
That all manifest forms are of the same reckoning.
All are founded upon knowledge, all are shaped by concepts.
All are but appearances fashioned by the kaleidoscoping quantum theater.
And You, your Self, in each and every passing moment, are imagining it all real and true;
This temporal window of eternity, into which You have been involuntarily cast.
86
Have you ever really existed as more than a figment of imagination?
Are you really anything more than a fleeting ghost of future past?
And what is history but a rolodex of memories soon 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 will born of imagination.
87
Live for what neighbors think.
Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's.
Tithe that which priesthoods ever demand.
Quibble over what was never anyone's to possess.
Purchase and consume until day is done, into night begun.
Fight ceaseless squabbles, the wealthy require the have-nots support.
Fulfill every obligation the given mind-body’s mythological concoction requires.
How wonderful, how glorious, how exultant, the absurd dreams,
Human kind, with incomprehensible conviction,
Has choicelessly chosen to play out.
* * * *
It is not some imagined god or great fiend,
Who can be impugned for the hells of human concoction.
It is self-absorption that is the driving force of the entire human condition.
It is vanity and greed that has manifested the untold horrors,
We have all together in imagination contrived.
88
Do not be overly concerned that You are,
Less and less inclined to what the dream offers.
The traces of obligation are perhaps the last attachment.
It is akin to a child heading home, glancing back at the sandbox,
No longer needing, no longer wanting, the sundry lessons it has imparted.
* * * *
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
You are not the body; You have never been the body.
And, no matter how you may wish it, You will never be the body.
It is but an illusory, temporal invention of consciousness,
To play out its unutterable time-bound theater.
A quantum dream, nothing more.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Do with your given time whatever consciousness deigns.
It does not really matter how one’s life is spent,
For it is naught but a temporary dream,
No matter how real it at any given moment seems.
92
Dreaming wherever you are,
You are witness to your universe,
The masks and costumes ever-changing,
But the clayness ever the same.
* * * *
Arduous, indeed, straddling the fence,
Between dreamtime and eternity,
Between mortality and immortality,
Between consciousness and nothingness.
93
So, you win your little revolution, what will you really do differently?
Your mindset remains untouched; the vanities of power, wealth, fame, still rule.
Personas come and go, political correctness modifies, ever-changing cultures rise and fall,
But the central mindset remains unaltered; patterns evolved long ago still reign.
The only significant paradigm shift, the only profound revolution,
Would be in the dreamtime of consciousness itself.
And, ultimately, ironically, paradoxically, poignantly,
Even that would be no more than a temporal phenomenon.
* * * *
As challenging as it well is,
Try to remember what you truly are,
As often as your dreamy center stage role allows.
94
Life comes, life goes, ever-present like the wind, gone just as quickly.
What is it but an ephemeral reverie in the hourglass of time.
The sand falling sure and steady to the last grain.
The curtain falling when the show is done.
I am the Truth, the Life, the Way,
And so are you, and so is everyone else,
And so is everything else, and so is nothing else.
We are all the same essence, dreaming the theater of time.
How can there be an exit to a stage, that has no beginning, no end.
Even in that which is deathless, You are ever here now in formless disguise.
* * * *
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
We are all the same indivisible, seamless, quantum matrix.
Synergistically creating and preserving and destroying it all together.
The source, the wellspring, and all the countless dreamers, are one in the same.
* * * *
Every assumption of dogma,
Every form of idolatry,
Every concoction of superstition,
Have their roots in the quicksand of imagination.
* * * *
Of course, the deity that is imagined does not exist.
How could that which is omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent,
That which is infinitely, timelessly, indivisibly perfect,
Ever partake anything, as more than witness?
97
How free any given newborn.
Pure awareness, untouched, untrammeled,
By all the past events or future concerns, all the burdens,
All the baggage they will one day inevitably carry in dreamtime’s passing.
* * * *
Nothing dreaming everything.
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.
* * * *
Complete and utter stillness,
Is the serenity in which all things small to great,
Play out their personal dreams in an infinite, indivisible, holographic matrix.
A universe in which creator and creation are one in the same.
100
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 smallest to the very largest, 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, to all times.
That which is witness to every dimension, to 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 … awareness … motionless, absolute, unconfined.
102
Every moment a new dreaming.
You are the awareness.
Stream on.
* * * *
Discern you are physician,
And then heal thy dreamtime Self,
Mend the myriad into one.
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 the ache of separation.
* * * *
Perception, sometimes vague and obtuse, sometimes clear and acute.
Yet always just perception; imagination playing its predictable game.
105
Do you really believe the confines of your, puny, proud, sluggish imagination;
All the restrictive, dogmatic assertions, to which you absurdly lay claim;
Is as far as your perception of God, would, should, could, ever go?
* * * *
Birth and death cycle about throughout your existence.
And You, playing out your meager little part,
Witness to every sensory moment,
Of the dreamtime it is.
106
What is the deity anyone imagines,
But a projection of their own absurd 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, except You.
* * * *
What can you possibly know,
Beyond the confines of imagination?
All beliefs, all speculations, are meaningless.
108
If you must have a religion,
What better than tranquil wanders in nature;
The most heavenly ever-present church creation could offer.
Misspent as it is, what remains, is still the one and only Gaia You will ever imagine.
And what attachment can You really have to this temporal garden creation?
All it is, all it has been, all it will be, is but an ephemeral dreamscape,
In the vast cosmic dust storm in which You are all and none.
* * * *
Death makes all history absurdly irrelevant.
All tradition is the delusion of imagination.
109
Another slice of the dream in the wake.
111
You are in a universe, in a world, in a form,
In a time, in a mind, in a dream,
But never of it.
112
In a win-lose world,
The dream evenly backs,
All the winners, all the losers,
In the zero-sum game that it really is.
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.
* * * *
You never know what the Fates have in store.
Best be ready for anything dreamtime allows.
* * * *
An absolute wellspring of irony, of paradox, of doubt, of absurdity;
Is what You must be, to wantonly, to brazenly, to fearlessly, to recklessly,
Peer prior to the sensory mind, 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
The immediacy of the ever-present now is just too impossible,
For most minds born of time and space to comprehend,
So they steadfastly adhere to whatever existence,
They are fated by dreamtime to perceive.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Everything consumable will be consumed,
And when what is left is all but gone,
And our kind runs hard aground,
In what will dreamtime’s future abide?
* * * *
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?
* * * *
So simple as to be practically nothing.
Cotton candy sweetly wafting in a dream.
* * * *
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 small to great,
Born of this garden world, this theater, this mysterious dream of time and space,
In which enigmas of every variety, rise and fall,
In ephemeral grace.
127
In the small, micro view, You are the center of a universe,
Created by the manifest sensory dreamtime, inspired by the body and mind.
But in the larger macro vision of all that is and all that is not,
You are but one, in a vast singularity of points.
128
Stories within stories within stories,
Woven seamlessly, effortlessly, timelessly,
In imagination’s onetime production.
* * * *
The so-called world, the so-called universe, the so-called every day,
Is nothing more than a touchy-feely, three-dimensional dream,
In which You may either wake up, or slumber throughout.
129
Truth is not something that can be attained,
In any imaginable way or shape or form.
It is merely source to the ever-fleeting,
Ever-mysterious, ever-indivisible moment.
130
Just a-spacin’ away; a-streamin’ with the dreamin’.
131
The only thing permanent and everlasting,
About this ever-changing manifest dream of consciousness,
Is the indivisible quantum essence, that permeates its each and every strand.
132
In its all but ceaseless, time-bound pursuit of security,
Imagination sows the seeds for every dread imaginable.
133
Individuality is a delusion, fabricated by consciousness, locked within a sensory dream.
Across the infinity of all dimensions, all creation shares the same Soul.
All are but shards of the indivisibly unfathomable.
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.
* * * *
Your world, your universe, expands in consciousness,
Until you at long last, realize fully, that it never really existed,
As anything more than an indivisible, ephemeral dream,
To which eternal awareness, is sovereign witness.
* * * *
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.
136
It is all surface sheen to the underlying formless,
An opportunity to peek from behind the veil,
For brief moments dreamed in time.
137
A waking dream,
Nothing more,
Nothing less,
Nothing but.
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.
* * * *
What a vain, frail dream.
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
That so many maltreat others, in so many cruel ways, is beyond all reckoning.
Some abide the barbarity through stoic cynicism and ironic repartee,
And others through compassionate, selfless, heartfelt service.
The human dreamscape finds time and place for all.
* * * *
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 of eternity.
And all your power, all your renown, all your fortune, all your beliefs,
Cannot even one moment more – command, influence, acquire, or hope.
144
In the lifelong inquiry into the one and only truth, the one and only reality,
Why on earth, vainly adhere to any particular school of thought,
When an entire universe is your dreamtime teacher.
* * * *
Memory is but the wake of imagination.
* * * *
All, in a dream.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
So much of everything within any given cosmos.
Nothing new, nothing old, everything the same, nothing the same.
On and on, the unknowable conundrum churns, ever creating, preserving, destroying.
The timeless in every mind’s eye, witness to a kaleidoscoping sensory mirage.
The awareness has awakened in so many dreams, in so many universes,
In so many paroxysms, in so many reflections of consciousness.
To the eternal, in which all small to great equally abide.
You are it, it is You, there is ultimately no other.
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
There are dilemmas enough in this dream world,
Without the upsurge of make-believe molehills.
* * * *
We are all wee little figments,
Of your idiosyncratic imagination,
And You in ours, and ours in each other’s.
Consciousness is but an ever-flowing dreamtime.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
147
When has nature ever been anything, but that which is called God?
How else would Self manifest, without one dream of time or another?
148
How much pain will you endure, to maintain your little dream?
* * * *
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
It has always been the same eternity, through which all dreams have streamed.
* * * *
Forget the world, forget the universe, forget everything, even your Self.
* * * *
Quantum body, quantum mind, quantum soul, quantum dream.
* * * *
The figment of imagination is within all.
* * * *
In the dream, but not of it.
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 mystery exists, not in time,
But in the timeless nowness of eternal beingness.
To achieve full potential as human being, be a human … being.
152
What are we but portions of quanta, playing out a three-dimensional theater,
Immortal at the essential level, yet mortal in whatever form played.
Birth, death, and the life between, are but an illusory dream.
In the ultimate eternal reality, prior to all creation,
There is no existence, there is no other, there is only You.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
We are all of the same mystery, the same awareness,
But the character, the personality, the identity,
Wears the cloak of whatever illusory dream,
The given nature-nurture has spawned.
Nothing about which to be inflated, really.
153
Abide and endure, perhaps even enjoy, the pride and prejudice of it all.
An inconstant dream of inconsequential heights and depths.
The challenge is not getting too attached to it.
* * * *
The mind, collection of vague perceptions that it is,
Is no more than what has come and gone,
Even when imagining the future.
* * * *
What need for anything,
When everything blows to and fro,
From here to there, there to here, and back again,
In the ever-changing, vagrant dreaming,
Of the ever-unfolding now.
* * * *
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
It is only in human consciousness,
That the disharmony of dualistic notion takes place.
In whatever way you might observe this infinite, indivisible matrix of a dream,
Whether physics or chemistry or biology, everything is connected,
Without any separation, any otherness, whatsoever.
* * * *
Without the patterning, without the movement of imagination,
Without all the assumptions and assertions,
What are you, really?
* * * *
To be born is to stream a so-called life,
A so-called fate, a so-called death,
A dream, unborn all the while.
156
What conclusion can there ever possibly be,
To a mystery capable of dreaming,
Without beginning or end?
157
What an amazing dream,
All that food and drink,
Has this moment created.
Even an ocean of absurdity,
Cannot undo the mystery of it all.
158
The infinite ocean of totality, is in no way, no shape, no form,
Interested or concerned or involved, with any illusory fabrication of consciousness.
It is solitary witness, within and without, all phenomena small to great,
But untouched by any dream bound to space and time.
* * * *
Every day you wake up and wander out into the dreamscape,
And pretend along with everyone else,
Knowing all the while,
That none of it is, was, or will ever be, real.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
So many languages in this dream world.
What a mind it would take, to comprehend them all.
An intellectual reverie, well beyond the capability and pay grade,
Of anyone bound by the frailties of mortal capacity.
161
Many are muddled by thoughts such as these,
Because they are questing guarantees of consolation and security,
In a touchy-feely, three-dimensional dream world,
That can never offer any such thing.
* * * *
Imagination is, within the vastness of awareness,
Both least and greatest common denominator.
162
How can awareness be thought to have either beginning or end,
When its momentary nature, is so ever-present, as to be unequivocally eternal.
Consciousness, however, is an entirely different bag of worms.
For all practical purposes, it is unable to hold still,
And is insatiably able and willing,
To distract itself and over and over,
With every antic it can possibly conceive.
* * * *
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.
163
Concepts upon concepts; minds chock-full of every sort of notion.
And in the grand scheme of this inexplicable whodunit;
Any given dream, nothing more than poof.
* * * *
There is nothing rational about existence.
Here You are, stuck in dreamtime for the time being.
So it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on, as best ye are able.
164
It is really all the eternal now,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Yet still you manage to awaken each and every day,
Believing your dream real and true.
165
We are all dreams in each other’s minds,
Different players kaleidoscoping across the same stage,
Dancing in the quantum matrix, in whatever way consciousness calls.
167
Earth is earth, wind is wind, water is water, 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
Meandering time and space, is the daily Sisyphean task for all.
The dream pushing a boulder of its own making,
Up whatever hill comes to mind.
* * * *
Why would anyone ever imagine a deity,
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 fixed,
By the physics of real-time invention,
And the moths lodged in the given wallet.
172
Much of old age is spent processing whatever conclusions,
You have reached about your temporal dream.
The groove in which you wander,
Whatever daze remains.
* * * *
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
At first a sensory riddle, the grand pattern gradually makes itself apparent.
This is the way all young grasp their newly-minted universe.
And within that kaleidoscoping dreamscape,
Each wanders a pathless path,
Very much alone.
* * * *
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 synthesis 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 perceptions 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.
176
What is so arduous about realizing the truth,
That the awareness within all, that the witness within all,
Is completely detached, objectively indifferent, benignly disengaged,
To the countless dreamtimes of consciousness, in all its pursuits, in all its passions.
It is the ether, the mysterious spirit of totality; name it if you must.
Duality is but the splintering of imaginary perception.
You are it, it is You, there is no other.
177
It is all an illusion, a dream;
Not just the parts you do not like.
You cannot cherry-pick truth.
178
A grain of sand, a swirl of smoke, a ripple of water, a flicker of flame,
Are as real as anything created of this manifest dreamtime.
Consciousness gives all things a sense of continuity,
But all are in reality merely fabrications,
That only candor can lay bare.
* * * *
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 figments of your sensory-inspired imagination.
180
Any universe, or any given supreme deity,
Requires a conscious witness to be baptized real.
Without your myriad desires, your passion for existence,
Without the fuel of incessant pondering, 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 perceptions of birth, of death, and all existence between?
What is everything known, what is everything unknown,
But the endless invention of imagination.
182
How can anyone believe real religion is dogmatic idolatry and carnival tricks,
When the whole manifest dream is really nothing more than hocus-pocus,
A sensory veil, a kaleidoscoping light show, of the most virtual kind.
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.
184
Given that consciousness is nothing more than a brief invention,
What heaven or hell, or any other fabrications of mind,
Can possibly endure in the ultimate sense?
185
You will play out your dream as you are most inclined.
It will seem like free will at the time,
And fate looking back.
* * * *
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?
188
We are all spectators to each other’s dreams.
* * * *
The smoke wafts an infinity of dreams.
* * * *
In ten years, one hundred years,
One thousand years, ten thousand years,
One hundred thousand years, one million years,
What etchings will be left of this dream of consciousness?
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.
* * * *
Another dream easily forgotten.
* * * *
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
Unassailably amazing what the mind-body,
Has been programmed through evolution’s long meander,
To see, to hear, to taste, to smell, to touch, and perchance to contemplate.
And every other life form from small to great across the theater,
Perceiving its sensory dream in its own unique way.
The vast singularity of it all is immutable,
And ineffable, beyond belief.
* * * *
The you that you every moment believe you are,
Is nothing more than a fabrication of imagination.
* * * *
You are that which is prior to the consciousness,
That contorts into the dream of little self in the frontal lobe.
You are the witness, the awareness, the source,
Through which all dreams dance.
193
This touchy-feely three-dimensional dream,
That you cannot stop, you cannot slow down, you cannot speed up,
You cannot change except as change allows.
All you can do is hope,
And of what use is that, really?
* * * *
Your dream will carry on as all dreams do.
Oblivion is the nonexistent destiny of all.
* * * *
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
Yet another mask, in the charade parade of dreamtime.
* * * *
Pointless to argue with or judge a dream.
* * * *
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
The challenge is to discern the passing dream of consciousness,
The here and now, as it is; fresh, without preconception.
To detach the filter of the mind caught in time,
To see reality, not how you think it is,
But clearly, from the stillness of attentiveness,
Without concept, feeling, motive, stereotype, prejudice.
To fathom the mystery of Youness from oblivion’s point of view.
* * * *
It is but a dream,
A streaming figment of imagination.
Abandon the quixotic mind and take up permanent residence,
In the sentience and heart of pure awareness.
203
Once You accept the premise that you exist,
The belief that You are a body, the notion that You are this or that,
You are fated to play out whatever manifest context,
Whatever blend of agony and ecstasy,
Has You in its fell grip.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
For You to be here now,
Everything that has happened,
Since time’s inception,
Had to happen.
* * * *
Those who would know totality,
Those capable of the greatest vision,
Must get over their imaginary little selves.
* * * *
What is this dreamy existence,
But an immeasurable, indivisible matrix;
A dynamic stillness, ceaselessly creating every patterning,
The essential nature, the source, can fathom.
* * * *
We all have the same monkey-mind,
But for whatever reason, some are able to pull back,
And meticulously examine, the unknown all creation has in common.
It is, indeed, a mystery beyond the pale of any reckoning.
204
It is what it is,
It was what it was,
It will be what it will be.
Pfft!
A dream,
Nothing more.
* * * *
No use bothering about or worrying,
That you are going to suffer,
That you are going to die.
Such is existence, and so it goes.
The destiny for all, in one fashion or another.
But the good news is that it will not be the real You dying.
Just another temporal apparition falling beneath,
The wheel of creation and destruction.
* * * *
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
Count yourself among those who do not know, do not care,
And abide as freely, as harmlessly, as aimlessly,
As body and mind and spirit allow.
Be captain of your ship,
And set sail,
Through the dream of time.
* * * *
Close your eyes,
Still your thoughts,
Dance around awhile.
Where is your mind-body?
What is it, really, but a memory,
A dream, through which You,
Like a burning fuse, pass?
* * * *
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 source, is ultimately bounded by its own nature.
That is why it is called quantum mechanics.
* * * *
Death only implies an individual existence is all said and done.
But no life form can ever even know what is done is done,
Because consciousness requires some sort of edifice,
Some sort of sensory-awareness receiving unit,
Able to perceive whatever ethereal dream,
Those whimsical fates have in store.
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 on this planet.
We may be able to create and preserve and destroy in every imaginable way,
But all sentience is of the same mysterious, ineffable 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;
In which observer is never the observed, and observed, never the observer.
True objectivity is an unattainable 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.
* * * *
True Self-love is not narcissistic in the mortal sense.
It is the immersion into the incorruptible within,
And that is the ultimate goal of existence,
For those for whom consciousness,
And dreams of time and space,
No longer entice or delude.
211
Has any moment of your dream, really ever been any different than this one?
212
All in a dream, all in a dream.
215
The death to all things imagined, opens the portal to eternal life.
* * * *
Imagine nothing.
216
Imagination causes itself to tremble and preen.
218
Yet another anonymous face in the mystery of dreamtime.
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 matrix, shrouded in 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.
232
From the womb of oblivion,
Onto a temporary stage for a brief dream.
Then, back to the eternal source, the timeless nothingness,
The singularity, from which all things spring.
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.
237
Who, what, where, when, why, how, am I?
Who, what, where, when, why, how, are you?
Who, what, where, when, why, how, is anyone?
Same source, same awareness, all dreams.
All dreaming themselves autonomous.
All dreaming themselves distinct.
All dreaming themselves real.
* * * *
Any given body is but a vehicle,
For consciousness play out, to dream,
Its finite trek through the relativity of time.
238
There is no other, there is only a dreaming,
To which you are witness, very much alone,
As free, as you, in any given moment, dare.
239
And what is all this experience, really,
But a memory the moment it is dreamt?
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.
* * * *
To be in the world, and not be of it.
One foot in dreamtime, the other, oblivion.
Challenging, indeed, to straddle the splintered fence.
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, prior to all 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.
* * * *
Awareness, oblivious to the play of good and evil,
Allows every dream of consciousness,
To have its day in the sun.
* * * *
Where would, where could, where should, awareness be,
Without a body-mind in which to imagine its Self real and true?
246
From the now so-long-ago entry into this dream world,
You have been conditioned to believe so many things truly matter,
And have gradually discerned many of them, if not all,
To indeed be very dubious assumptions.
Where to now, Pilgrim,
Now that doubt is your filament?
* * * *
Trying to love each other, to love all things, has been,
A goal well beyond reach, a bar set far 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, that 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.
248
From the same mysterious source,
The ephemeral dreamtime of all beginnings, all endings,
All causes, all effects, all parts, all stages,
All everything, all nothing.
* * * *
It is all really the same You through and through,
And each must wander the pathless dream alone,
To discern the presence of the indivisible within.
249
Every moment is born anew.
It is your own choice to imagine space-time 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,
To which you do not willingly capitulate,
For one passion or another.
* * * *
How can there ever be a line between within and without,
When neither are more than imaginary concepts,
With no elemental reality, whatsoever.
You are ever it; it is ever you.
There is no other.
* * * *
To truly listen, to hear with your entire being,
Without any thought, any judgment,
You must be willing and able,
To completely give yourself over,
To the babbling brook of another’s dream.
250
We are all just kaleidoscoping mirages of imagination,
Rippling into each other in every conceivable way.
251
All have within them the limited and unlimited potential.
Everything narrow and broad, shallow and deep.
It is attachment to the individual dreams,
That binds all sentient beings,
To the dualities born of the senses.
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.
* * * *
Around and within awareness, a food body is created,
And for a brief duration, it witnesses Self,
Through a tentative lens,
Of whatever consciousness,
The nature-nurture dream allows.
* * * *
We are all abodes of the same moment,
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?
254
You were born of Mother Earth,
And the immensity from which all reveries are spun,
And one of these daze, she will find a way,
To mill you back into the compost,
With which dreamtime,
Will renew its timeless play.
* * * *
All dreams, all memories, all ideas, eventually evaporate,
Into what they have been all along; the one and only real You.
The timeless awareness, in which all things come and go.
Appear and disappear, like clouds through the sky.
256
All dogma is artificial and arbitrary.
Attempts to mold into reality,
That which is prior,
To all manifest dreams,
Is a sojourn filled with every variety,
Of groundless, pride-filled absurdity and delusion.
257
Every part and particle throughout the entire cosmos, ineffably synchronized,
Spontaneous, impromptu, unplanned, unarranged, unpremeditated, unprepared, unrehearsed,
Extemporaneous, improvised, makeshift, spur-of-the-moment, off-the-cuff,
Ad-libbed, ad hocked, played by ear, on the fly, on cue.
What an amazing beyond-all-pales thing,
This quantum singularity.
And You are it, and it is You, there is no other.
* * * *
We are all sovereign players in each other’s dreams.
Whether key roles, or merely shadows in a crowd,
It is the same for all, whatever the stage or play.
* * * *
Dread is the worry of 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.
* * * *
Considering that you feel all but done, after just one rather fleeting dreamtime of a lifetime,
If there is some sort of supreme deity of an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent nature,
How beyond-the-pale weary it must be, having to witness the human drama for eons.
258
So many ways this vain dream can be played out.
No need to follow, no need to imitate, no need to duplicate,
For those who have the courage to wander alone.
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, and can never see it, either?
It is naught but reflections and smoke and mirrors,
Only as real as imagination pretends.
261
You long for it to be more than a dream,
But more, it can never be,
And thus, you must learn to face, and embrace,
The eternal aloneness, in which your ultimate nature, in serenity resides.
262
Ignorance, being its own distorted, corrupt end;
There is really very little point in debating with any true believer.
If someone is seething dogma about anything fashioned of this manifest dreamtime,
Then it is no doubt much less bothersome to put them behind you,
And just walkabout some other direction.
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
For the want of minds, that can discern the mystery within all things,
For the want of ears, that can hear the soundless, eyes that can see the unseen,
Another vision of the grand reality gradually fades in the dream of time.
It is not the choir that needs to discern that which is real and true.
* * * *
A question for the sciences: How small is small? How big is big?
What exactly is ever being measured but the limitations of imagination?
266
You have been mortal dreamer;
Seer, mystic, hierophant, oracle, prophet;
And now you are the truth, the life, the way … That I Am.
Krishna, Shiva, Buddha, Tao, Advuhut, Christ, God, Allah, Soul, Brahman;
However it might be designated or identified by all dreams samsara.
Born again, timelessly absolute, every streaming moment.
Immortal, sovereign, infinite, supreme, complete;
Prior to all dimensions of space and time.
* * * *
No bird has ever written down even one chirp.
Nor a dog a bark, nor a cat a meow, nor a badger a growl.
This dreamtime would be without even one history,
Had humankind not imagined otherwise.
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 imaginary notion stirred 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.
* * * *
The ever-present, timeless nowness of this garden cosmos,
Is ever right here, right now, ready to take you back into its fold,
Back into the ceaseless kaleidoscoping of its ever-dreamy matrix reality.
271
Adrift in formlessness, wandering a dream you mistakenly call your own.
* * * *
Ever-changing dream that it is, best never to take anything for granted.
* * * *
A-dreamin' in the streamin'.
274
We are all just temporal masks streaming by in each other's dreams.
275
Birth and death, just different ends of the same dream stream.
276
Such aloneness cannot be imagined.
277
The dream will entice with whatever bait the mind desires.
* * * *
A collusion of imagination in the nothing-more-nothing-less of it all.
* * * *
Power and fame and fortune, all the poof of imagination.
279
To imagine a deity outside your Self is absurd.
* * * *
All in a dream.
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?
* * * *
Every moment an unfolding clue to dreamtime’s enigma.
292
The full story of your dream will never be known by anyone but you.
293
No matter the dream, you cannot be in any other now than this one.
294
Imagination is just a soliloquy of illusion’s delusion.
295
Existence is a smorgasbord, of whatever comes to mind, in this dreamy field of time.
297
How can that which never dies, ever be born but through imagination?
300
The dream you call life, is chock-full of things that do not go your way.
Getting angry or depressed about it all, is much less challenging,
Than learning to just turn the other cheek, and wander on.
* * * *
If you are truly content with your kaleidoscoping dream;
Satisfied with what you have seen, with what you have done;
Why would anyone else's judgment ever possibly matter?
* * * *
After awakening to a larger vision of all creation,
Except for a greater sense of the grand connectiveness,
You are really no different than you were before.
You must still abide the mortal dreaming,
And that is never always easy.
302
Nobody can save anybody, or anything, in the grand creation-destruction of it all.
Only the eternal singularity, which we all are, which some call God,
Is prior to all dreams of time, to all birth, to all death.
There is no point at all, believing any sound laced with concept,
Will ever even once, touch the ultimate reality of it, the ultimate truth of it.
* * * *
Despite all assumptions and collusions to the contrary,
Neither your body, nor your mind, nor your dream,
Has ever, for even one moment, been the same.
303
Some things you do for years; some things 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.
Illusion 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 its Self real,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
304
Still the chattering mind; seal the dike from which thought swirls into dreamtime.
Cease your universe, for at least a bit, in the once in a while.
Meditation, it is indeed that simple.
* * * *
The idolatry of form and concept is all balderdash.
Put it all behind You, and wander however You please.
You are prior to all dreams in this kaleidoscoping mirage,
And no sanction by any other is ever required,
For you to be what You truly are.
306
Words ceaselessly meander,
Through the corridors of imagination,
Concocting every variety of fantastical enterprise.
307
Imagination is the trove of all agony, of all ecstasy,
But it is truly nothing more than echoes,
In the vacuum of eternity.
* * * *
Probably 99.99 percent of all life on this garden world,
Exists between the heights of Mount Everest,
And the depths of the Mariana Trench.
That is only just a smidgen over twelve miles,
Which is where to where, in your dream of a world?
308
We must all play to the given audience on the given stage.
And no matter how many stages You may,
In any given life wander,
In your own dream,
You are ever lead character,
Immortal protagonist in the grand theater.
309
There are always consequences,
In the causes and effects of this manifest dream.
Consciousness must ever pay the many pipers of its own creation.
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.
* * * *
What tricksters these senses are,
Manifesting a reality that can never be real,
Creating a reverie that can never be more than a dream.
314
Continually processing, grokking your little dream,
When you could, instead, be nirvana now.
It is right here, right now,
As it has always been, will ever be.
* * * *
Be as indivisibly indifferent as all the stars,
It has taken to create this imaginary dream.
315
The malarkey of fear and superstition and ignorance,
Would have you bow and scrape and pay homage for all eternity.
But in truth, there is nothing to which you are in any way required to submit,
If you have the courage to stand free of all claims, utterly alone,
In the elemental winds of your quantum dream.
* * * *
Best discern the existential of it now,
For there will likely not be the opportunity,
Once the container to which you are so attached,
Blows back into the dream-weaving quantum sands.
316
How would all the intelligence,
Playing out in this manifest dreamtime world,
Be possible, if it were not inherent within the quantum source?
Intelligent design, indeed.
* * * *
Perception is always such a muddy-waters thing,
Because the input of the senses is whittled down so thoroughly,
By the filtration process as it wanders through the patterning of the given mind.
Conditioning is the weaver of all dreams.
317
You will suffer until you let go of your universe,
And the incessant movement of the mind that sustains it.
Until you give way to the stillness of the awareness,
The source from which all dreaming streams.
* * * *
What are gods and demons, what are heavens and hells,
But the imaginary, stuporous vapor, of fear-ridden minds.
* * * *
Not too much longer before this mortal dream will fade into oblivion.
What a relatively short set of streaming moments, any given life truly is.
319
Just a touchy-feely three-dimensional dream,
Ever the same, no matter the space, no matter the time.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
320
It is the collective synergy of human endeavor,
That is carrying our kind, all the myriad creatures small to great,
And our illusory, dreamtime garden birthing ground,
Toward a most guaranteed outcome.
322
Are you prepared to leave everything behind?
To be totally, absolutely free, of all manifest claims?
Are you prepared to be, You, absolutely alone, dreamless?
Naught but pure awareness; formless, for all eternity?
Or will you do all this to your Self, yet again?
* * * *
And what point is there, really,
In wallowing in all this sentiment,
This passion, this imaginary pretense,
Of such an obviously impermanent nature.
323
Your dream of existence is a mystery,
That time will never long attest really happened.
Truly not at all different than any tree falling alone in a forest.
* * * *
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 iota of a 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 heavens and hells.
325
All the imperial pretenses of nation states,
And all the many ways groups combine and align,
Are all just short-lived, meaningless, delusions of grandeur,
That the dreamtime inevitably shows the back door,
Hooking and gonging them off the stage,
The same as everything else.
326
What is needed to abide, perhaps thrive, in this manifest dream of a world?
Intelligence, common sense, street smarts, discipline, skills,
Gumption, initiative, creativity, detachment,
And whatever else words such as these might imply.
* * * *
Humankind is perhaps the most pathological cancer,
Ever devised by this dreamy panorama of a matrix.
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.
* * * *
Is consciousness the river, in which you flow,
Or you the stillness, through which it dreams?
329
So many irreconcilable problems.
But how can you solve a dream?
330
History is the arbitrary highlighting of selected snapshots,
From eternity’s indivisible, ever-graceful streaming.
The crisscrossing of the endless array of ripples,
Which bring notable events to realization.
And from those streaming moments,
New ripples, ever make their way,
In the quantum theater’s dreamtime.
* * * *
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.
331
The universe is but a dreamy sandbox for consciousness to do what it will.
* * * *
Play your little part in the world, but know it is but a dream, no matter how real it seems.
333
Think you cannot at all get along without someone or something?
Oh, you will, my fine friend, rest assured, you will, indeed.
Whether voluntarily, or from your cold, lifeless hands,
Absolutely everyone and everything will cease to exist when you do.
When this magical mystery tour of a dream reaches its most certain conclusion.
Consciousness is but a temporal state, requiring a vessel of some sort, in which to play out.
The promises of everlasting life, of access to one deity or another, will always prove but empty and vain.
And of what is called rebirth; it is not some individual persona, but the mystery that all things are.
And that quantum “You-ness” born anew, will blow in the nature-nurture winds of its time.
Experiencing many things; always with very much the same awareness within all.
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.
* * * *
Eternity is the seamless now,
To which momentary awareness is witness.
Die to the dream of time, and totality becomes absolutely clear.
335
The singular mystery somehow created You.
And You in turn, witness your version of a manifest dream.
You are it, and it is You; as indivisible, as inseparable, as it must ever be.
* * * *
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 really want, is what your imaginary deity wants.
Maybe the mundane, through which you traipse, really is the plan.
And 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.
* * * *
It is all pretty meaningless, despite all assertions to the contrary.
How can any dream ever be real, no matter how real it seems?
* * * *
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 God?
339
How can the quantum singularity, that which is called God by many names,
Ever truly divide itself into more than endless arrays of kaleidoscoping dreamscapes?
Temporal reflections of light and sound seamlessly cast through every conceivable dimension.
There is no denying, but through the endless permutations of delusion,
That we are all of the same original nature.
* * * *
Any given mind, is nothing more than an arbitrary bubble of consciousness.
The only constant is the awareness, from which all dreams indivisibly spring.
340
An angel of death you are,
To so many creatures small to great,
You have consumed and destroyed to be here now.
Alas and oh well, it is a God-eat-God world.
Nothing is lost, nothing is gained,
In the grand dreamtime.
341
Within the quantum indivisibility of the singularity,
All things from the smallest to the greatest,
From the infinite to the infinitesimal,
Play out dreams too countless to comprehend.
342
It really only matters that you wake up to what You truly are.
Do not be overly concerned about the many others in your dreamtime.
They will awaken if/when they have seen and done enough.
And if You are one of their many teachers or not,
Why would it, could it, really matter,
If there truly is no other?
344
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.
* * * *
Consciousness is the flower,
Awareness, the root,
And the indivisible totality,
The ground in which all dreams,
Blossom, flourish, diminish, dissolve.
345
You came into this mystery with nothing,
You will leave it with nothing,
And there has really been nothing more,
Than imaginary notions in every moment between.
* * * *
If it is your calling to discern that which is mystery,
That which is within all, small to great,
You must let go everything.
Yes, everything.
The you, you pretend,
Fabricated by imagination,
Must become so inwardly quiet,
That you divine the awareness You are,
That which is boundless prior to all conception.
* * * *
You take some pain, you dish out some pain; impossible not to.
Existence is turbulent for all born into this dreamtime.
So it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.
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 its 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 realm of all the other creatures of Eden,
Who have managed not to degenerate, to devolve,
Into the madness, the 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
This momentary nowness,
Is all that is really happening.
The dream is just that … a dream.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
353
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
Call it That I Am, call it Brahman, call it Tao, call it God, call it Self, call it whatever you will.
It is all the unnamable awareness that is prior to all dreams of consciousness.
Absolute, indivisible, complete, supreme, without peer.
And You and everything else, it as well.
There is nothing that is not this ineffable mystery.
Despite all imaginary inventions, it is ever the indelible unknown.
* * * *
All your many attempts to hold onto anything,
Are absolutely futile, utterly meaningless.
There is naught but the dreamy now,
And the perceptions to which the mind,
With such tenacious determination, clings.
* * * *
What a magical dream this garden world was, before humankind began assaulting it,
With its insatiable greed, its 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?
* * * *
From the quantum, all-seeing perspective,
What is any existence, any stream of consciousness,
But yet another footnote in the annals of this mystery theater.
Important unto its Self, but really nothing more than a brief dreaming,
A brief notion, a brief glimmer, in the play of time, in the quantum stardust of it all.
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.
359
To be free of imagination,
Or not to be free of imagination,
The question of all questions.
* * * *
Nope, nope, nope, there is nothing more to it,
Than what this moment, each and every now offers.
Even gods on high, are caught up in one dream or another.
360
No one else can ever perceive your version of the dreamtime.
Do with it what you will, what you can, in the time allowed.
* * * *
Eternal means timeless.
Eternal life means timeless life.
To live a timeless existence, you must abandon,
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 passion, 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, resolute, 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 quantum vibration?
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 streaming moment, so fleeting, like an ever-burning fuse.
Every point of nowness, gone as swiftly as it arrives.
Everything, but figments of imagination.
Merely a dream of the senses.
A magical, mystery 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 pure awareness?
All identification, all naming,
It but 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 a momentary flurry,
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.
* * * *
The universe created of senses and mind,
Is both the teacher and the greatest distraction.
A manifest dream, in which the stillness of awareness,
Is locksmith to the momentary nature of an eternal existence.
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.
372
A multi-dimensional, ephemeral dream of matter,
With which You identify for a brief sense of time.
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.
* * * *
Religion that is not religion, belief that is not belief;
In which momentary awareness is the only faith required.
Staged, ever-streaming, in a sensory theater of a timeless dream.
No one can help you realize your ultimate, indelible reality.
You must discover it completely, totally, forever alone.
375
No matter how real it all seems, the you that You play,
Is but 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.
* * * *
Even now, after a plethora of dreamtimes,
Nearly everything under any sun,
Still, you long for more.
* * * *
It takes a strong, disciplined spirit,
To maintain 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 very vivid imagination,
Until the eternity of every moment breaks through the mists anew.
Perhaps one day You will stay here.
* * * *
This moment, this right now,
Is all there is, and there ain’t no more,
No matter how much imagination yearns it so.
* * * *
You are the writer in the writing,
The singer in the song, the painter in the painting,
Ever wandering an inexplicable dreamscape in your own solitary way.
377
Which moment can ever crowd out or define another,
When all are equally, timelessly, here-now, come and gone.
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.
* * * *
The awareness is not the manifest dreamscape.
It is the unfolding creation from which all things ascend.
It is for each to discern, to perceive, within their individual dream;
That they are the same awareness, the same source, as any other is in theirs.
379
What is it, draws some minds into the examination of mystery,
And other into living out the dreamtime of the senses,
But an inexplicable mustard seed of curiosity.
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.
383
Are you really any more,
Than the smokiness of any flame?
That ghostly trail wafting evenly from a pipe,
Is truly as real as your meager role in this ineffable dream.
* * * *
You want to know the one and only truth?
It is all You, nothing but You, and You absolutely alone.
Now, Pilgrim, sally forth against the many windmills of space and time,
And discern yet again, You are the source, You are the mystery,
If such dreamtime fate be yours in some future telling.
384
In the grand, holographic dreamscape,
Someone had to be, at the right place, at the right time,
Or at the wrong place, at the right time.
It just may, or may not,
Have been you.
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.
* * * *
No point in dreading the inevitable demise.
All anyone can do is watch and wonder,
Until the Reaper, grim or otherwise,
Shows up to harvest the dreamer.
* * * *
Discerning the infinite truth of your Self,
Erases all karma, erases all consequences,
And aligns your dreamtime fate with eternity.
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 mind and body,
Of this imaginary identity of the manifest kind?
387
To abide in this dreamtime manifest theater,
All must, all will, in one way or another,
Play along with the given collusion.
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 another shard of the given 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 despised the world he had created, that he gave his only son,
To spawn a religion that would guarantee 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, all purpose, is imagined from first breath to last.
* * * *
We are all but ephemeral dreamtimes of our ultimate nature,
Temporal waves crashing upon the rocky shores of infinity.
What is the point of judging any part or particle of it, really?
A dream is a dream, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
393
One man’s babble is another man’s song; one man’s pleasure, another’s pain.
No one sees, hears, tastes, smells, feels, anything the same.
We all sail alone within an ocean’s dream.
* * * *
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,
Jump through cerebral gymnastics all but meaningless to daily existence,
Wherein consciousness must every moment 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 immense 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.
* * * *
We all share the same awareness,
The same reverie of time and space,
Yet each and every one is utterly unique.
All frames of reference are relative,
Until what is seen is no more.
All judgment is absurd.
* * * *
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 any given 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 cannot save anyone from their inevitable fate.
You may play a part, but it is they, alone,
Who must live out their dream.
Call it destiny, fate, kismet, dream,
It is ever ephemeral and time-bound,
And has no lasting nature, whatsoever.
Only that prior to quantum dust has merit.
* * * *
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 droplets in this ineffable 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, cutting loose of all your imaginary renditions,
That would be beyond all pales.
* * * *
The secular triumvirate: creation, preservation, destruction,
Are equal, ever-present, kaleidoscoping qualities,
Of this indivisibly timeless dreamtime.
Caress all the wounds and tension,
Your vat of flesh and bones has endured,
That you might arrive at this moment of existence.
All those 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, nor my consciousness, nor 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 vanity of some imaginary deity.
* * * *
Awareness is prior-to-conscious dream of time and space,
Fabricated in the quantum-neuron matrix of any given mind.
Every sort of distraction will haunt you, until you set them all aside.
Not easy for any dreamer to detach completely from the sensory play.
* * * *
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 give over to any of it, if you have the wit, the audacity, to stand alone.
400
What will the dreamtime you now witness,
Be in 10 or 100 or 1,000 or 10,000
Or 100,000 or 1,000,000
Or gazillions beyond counting.
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 cosmos, after the body disincorporates?
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.
402
This garden world, this universe, this creation, this great nada of a dreamtime,
Is going to do just fine without its two-legged, absurdly estranged cancer.
Consciousness is really nothing more than a feverish flash in the pan.
403
All flaws are imagined.
Physician, heal thy Self.
Be whole, sovereign, true.
* * * *
How draining it can so 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 vibration.
There is only the singularity of awareness,
In which every other, every moment, is 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.
406
You are the spark, not the circuit.
The circuit is but a dream along which energy travels,
For but the briefest of whiles.
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 statistical 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.
* * * *
There is no conclusion to all that is measurable,
Until you understand the choicelessness,
In which all dreams are dreamt.
* * * *
You can withdraw from the world into a cave,
Or embrace it all, and sing the song, dance the dance.
Either way, it is still but a fleeting, ever-changing dreaming.
* * * *
It is a God-eat-God, quantum-bash-quantum, stars-fling-comets-across-the-universe,
Rock-paper-scissors, throw-the-dice-across-the-table, everything-on-red,
Touchy-feely-three-dimensional-dream, kind of manifest zone.
410
How seriously to take this kaleidoscoping dreamtime, depends on your nature.
To be light and breezy all the time, well, few can truly manage to be that free.
* * * *
* * * *
Amazing as it is, in its function as a portal, into this touchy-feely sensory dreamtime,
What a revolting piece of work, the human body, once you yellow-brick-road it closely.
411
This streaming dreamtime moment, will be at best partially perceived.
More likely quickly forgotten, and even more likely all but unnoticed.
* * * *
Any earnest scientist inevitably discerns that the observer is the observed.
Measurement can only go so far, before it evaporates in the limits 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.
412
Each of us, every day, in every way, work often times very hard,
To hold our ever-changing perception of a universe together.
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.
* * * *
How do you wish this dream to continue is the question,
For you are all the players across time in your mind.
Will it be a simple, pleasant, even joyous dreamscape?
Or a dystopian nightmare from which none will ever escape?
414
All our imaginary universes are built within frames of reference molded by experience.
Each of us can only see and hear and touch and taste and smell and feel,
What minds have been conditioned to discern and realize.
The ineffable mystery, is vessel for all.
* * * *
As real as it may seem in the moment-to-moment,
Of this three-dimensional sensory theater,
None of it has ever truly been,
More than a brief sensory distraction.
* * * *
A different time, a different existence.
A different appearance, a different dream.
A different world, a different universe.
All the differences; same mystery.
* * * *
And why do you need to believe in anything concocted by mind?
Is not just being, enough, without all the nonsense born of imagination?
415
God and Satan are the bogeymen of imagination.
* * * *
Freedom is in the doubting of everything imagined.
416
What greater folly, what greater absurdity,
Could there possibly be in this inane dream of a world,
Than to try to influence its illusory course?
* * * *
It has always been your voice speaking to you,
Through the innumerable others you have encountered,
Throughout your mortal existence in the dreamtime of samsara.
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.
418
And what is the point of all this passion, for what is really nothing more than a brief dream?
419
Awareness is the one and only real You prior to consciousness.
Consciousness is nothing more than imagination,
In the playground of the mind.
* * * *
If this dream is happening,
Then what dream is not possible,
In the grand theater of infinity’s rainbow?
420
The manifest dream is a grand feast,
And at its source is that which is absolute.
And when you are stuffed to the point of bursting,
Self-discovery is the final desert, the nightcap, so to speak.
421
I have given you conscious reality.
Through this mind, you exist.
Had we never met, or had I never heard of you,
You would not be, but through the wide-ranging intuition of all things possible.
Outside this awareness, this consciousness,
You do not exist.
You have given me conscious reality.
Through your mind, I exist.
Had we never met, or had you never heard of me,
I would not be, but through the wide-ranging intuition of all things possible.
Outside your awareness, your consciousness,
I do not exist.
What is the world but a brief ephemeral dream for all.
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.
* * * *
It is naught but a dream,
But just try telling others that.
Some either want to worship or kill you,
Rather than figure out what you are talking about.
424
429
The natural laws govern all creatures, all things, from small to great.
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.
* * * *
All the sensations, all the passions,
All the concoctions of mind and body,
None are the essential, real You,
The sovereign, immaculate,
Absolute witness,
The heart of awareness,
The oneness prior to all dreams.
430
You are bound in dreamtime,
Until the samsara of consciousness,
Has played itself out in you.
* * * *
This garden world owes you nothing.
It provided the seed, and you are doing with it,
Whatever the dreamy space-time of consciousness wills.
431
Life is but a few breaths,
And back to sleep, back to sleep,
In the eternal manger prior to dreamtime.
* * * *
Even when their dream is afire,
Human beings have the delusional capacity,
To believe that a deity is looking over them, protecting them,
And that he/she/it, will help them somehow continue on, as they always have.
434
Consciousness is a means,
To playing out the dream of time.
You are the awareness, not consciousness.
435
All these sounds are but interchangeable concepts describing the same unfathomable reality:
God, Brahman, Buddha, Jesus, Allah, Soul, matrix, unicity, oneness, stillness,
Indivisible, sovereign, absolute, awareness, consciousness, bliss,
Serenity, divinity, nothingness, totality, ether, dream,
Universe, quantum … mystery …
* * * *
All religion is unnecessary, pointless, superfluous, gratuitous.
Whether one deity or many, not one is real, not one is true.
All are imaginary inventions, collusions, lies, of the monkey-mind.
What dogma, what 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.
437
Deities have always been invented across the world, across time,
To cope with the unknown, to deal with the waves of agony and ecstasy,
Of this sensory dream, in which we play out our endless vanities.
The wisdom of insecurity is for the few and far between.
* * * *
Herded by time, into adventure after adventure,
And just as surely pressed on again and ever again.
What a challenging dream to at so many times endure.
438
There is nothing in this world, or any other, that must, or can be, continued.
The eternal moment is, with or without a manifest dream.
So, Pilgrim, where are you in all this?
* * * *
Every culture, no matter the size, no matter the capacity,
Must inevitably succumb to the consequences,
Of every success, of every failure,
In its synergistic dream.
* * * *
The dream births you,
Attends you,
Feeds and clothes you,
Gives you pleasure, inflicts pain,
With every intention of someday killing you.
And you, in return, accept your destiny, and believe it all real.
* * * *
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.
440
What dreamtime of consciousness plays out within any of us,
Is more out of our hands than pride would deign believe.
Free will is an assumption abiding on very thin ice.
* * * *
There is nothing to want or fear.
It is only a body; it is only a dream.
441
It is the same awareness in all,
Dreaming eternally in one simultaneous here now,
Witness to all genesis, in every way, in one synchronized, indivisible instant.
I, Quantum … You, Quantum … He, Quantum … She, Quantum … Us, Quantum … All, Quantum.
* * * *
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.
You are but one,
Of the myriad eyes of mystery,
Yet another matchless witness to the infinity of dreams,
The mystery ever inspires in imagination.
* * * *
What contortions, those cemented into one meme or another,
Will maintain, to rationalize, to justify, their imaginary universe.
445
What urgency is there in this universe,
Once you recognize it for the dream it is.
What is there to save, to change, to do, to be,
But what you are, have ever been, will ever be,
What you are not, have never been, will never be.
446
Why would you really need to believe the mythology,
The folklore, the legends, the customs, the traditions, the history,
All the many perceptions, of any given culture, ultimately real and important,
Including the dreamy sliver of space and time that you call your own?
447
So, you woke up again this morning, and what is your dream up to this inexplicable day.
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.
* * * *
Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.
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.
* * * *
Pass on what you can, to as many as you can, as often as you can.
You never know who will have the ears that hear and eyes that see.
Nor what will flower in the challenging dreamtime now unfolding.
451
On a small spinning pale blue dot, in an outback of a brief manifestation,
Vanity arose in a noisy flurry, for barely a whisper of the space-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.
* * * *
There is nothing everlasting about any form, about any dynamic.
Nature is a chaotic divinity; illusion an anchorless dream.
And through it all, is an indivisibility, so cosmic,
Only in wonder can it be comprehended.
* * * *
A dream is a dream,
No matter how real it seems.
Truth is truth, no matter the delusion.
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.
* * * *
To be born is to die,
With some wandering
Through a dream between.
That is the way it is.
* * * *
All these traditions,
All these geographic assumptions;
Vainly vying for supremacy in a world of dreams,
Where all patterns small to great orbit in a vast sea of relativity.
453
When the given body hungers, when it thirsts, it seeks out food and water.
But that which slakes the ravenousness nature of the unquenchable mind,
Is an existential question to which each dreamer must alone find answer.
* * * *
You are but a minute speck of this vast conundrum of a universe,
That happened, for whatever speculation might be mustered,
To have been born into this dreamtime as a human being,
Into a particular geography, with a particular mindset,
To which you have likely become far too attached.
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 vaguely imagine.
* * * *
You are born now, you live now, you die now.
Time is just a temporary state of imagination.
* * * *
You are so caught up in the sensory dream,
So hypnotized, so conditioned, so brainwashed,
That you believe it all real, you believe it all important.
You believe everything thought, you believe everything felt.
All is vanity, nothing more, nothing less, nothing but,
And it the key to the mind in which you reside.
457
What imagination sows, imagination reaps.
458
What is existence but every moment fathoming, navigating, negotiating,
A quantum dreamtime that will never even once stop,
Until death do you merge.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
The quantum either of genesis is still evolving,
And we are all equal players in the dreaming of it.
Intelligent design, free and clear of idolatry or dogma.
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 theater.
The means to survive, to endure physically and psychologically,
The dreamtime into which it has been by mystery cast.
465
The monkey-mind lays claim to every imaginable expression 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 dream.
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 which is prior to consciousness is awareness.
Awareness is timeless; consciousness, time.
Awareness is still; consciousness, movement.
Awareness is reality; consciousness, imagination.
It is what it is; nothing less, nothing more, nothing but.
* * * *
Is this whole dream, is all of eternity,
Just an interminable recording going on and on?
The unknowable, merely playing it all out to pass the time.
A cavernous awareness simultaneously inhaling,
Through every eye, every single moment.
* * * *
Most are likely easy targets, should anyone want to do them harm.
The challenge in this dreamtime, is to either make as few adversaries as possible,
Or to have the wherewithal to build castles and armies great enough to fend off the barbarians.
Not too many actors get to play pharaohs and kings and other warlord roles,
So, most must choose the former as the fickle fates allow.
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 witnessed patterns over and over enough,
To well anticipate 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
Sometimes you give your attention to consciousness.
Sometimes you give your attention to awareness.
And in the end, it does not really matter at all.
There is no meter, there is no final judgment.
It is a three-dimensional quantum dream,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Rest assured, it shall carry on without you.
* * * *
We are all patterns seeking some sort of respite, some sort of reprieve,
From whatever purgatory the sensory-mind every twinkling, imagines real.
The promises of God, of heaven, of eternal bliss, however hollow, are 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
And why should not every day be rife with contemplation of the unknown?
Why should not every day, even in the tempest of great activity, be a day of rest?
What is it so many are striving to be, to prove, in this most astounding dream of time?
* * * *
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.
475
You work so hard to become something in this world, in this manifest dream.
Challenging to realize, challenging to accept, that it was all for nothing.
The winds of vanity … nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
476
Once the life course has been set, once the world view has been molded,
A fair number of monkey-minds do not do well with too many choices, too many options.
Many feel the need to change, even destroy anyone, anything that is too different,
Which for some means almost everyone and everything on the planet.
What a thing to be so confined, so narrowed, so limited,
So incapable of embracing the great all of it.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Your body and mind are riddled with every sort of fear and worry,
The post-traumatic stress of the synergy of life’s ever-streaming currents,
Some soft, some harsh, but all sculpting you, as the winds of time do all things.
* * * *
Challenging, perhaps all but impossible,
Not to discern the sensory present through the countless filters,
The mind-body’s tree rings from a lifetime of abiding the dreamtime of the given universe.
Only the newborn perceives it for the kaleidoscoping unknown that it ever is,
And none for long as the mind steadily puts order to the chaos
Into which it has from oblivion been cast.
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 costume?
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?
* * * *
What is the Buddha mind, the eternal mind,
But the mind that thinks without thinking, sees without seeing,
Hears without hearing, smells without smelling, tastes without tasting, feels without feeling.
The sensory theater is but an ephemeral, ever-kaleidoscoping dream.
A quantum play, nothing more, nothing less.
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.
* * * *
How is the human species really any different,
Than lemmings irreversibly rushing towards oblivion?
What is this dream, but patterns within patterns within patterns?
482
Best take reasonable care of the body.
It is the portal through which the dream is experienced,
Through which You witness whatever slice of mystery You have been allotted.
Life offers too many challenges to not be able to face it squarely,
With as much health and well-being, as possible.
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.
* * * *
A few metaphors from a thesaurus, for the mind brewing in equanimity: Composure,
Calm, level-headedness, self-possession, coolheadedness, presence of mind;
Serenity, tranquility, phlegm, imperturbability, equilibrium; poise,
Assurance, self-confidence, aplomb, sangfroid, nerve.
* * * *
Consciousness is the movement within a bubble of manifest awareness,
Whose brief mortal dreamtime allows the grand quantum mystery,
To witness its Self in whatever way the genetic lottery spins.
* * * *
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
By means great or small, your mortal conclusion is assured.
From formlessness to formlessness, a brief dream between.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
Do not confuse what you imagine, or what you do,
With the prior-to-consciousness awareness You are.
* * * *
Strands of genes collide and merge into new life.
Each and every one matchless in its own dream of time,
Each and every one an immeasurably vast cosmos unto its Self.
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
Have you really, ever thought, said, or done anything all that different,
Than anything thought, said, or done countless dreamtimes before and since?
Perhaps, but likely ever so rarely, and really, naught but minor tweaks,
In the eternally evolving patterning spun of quantum stardust,
In the puddles and jungles of the unfolding long ago.
* * * *
Human existence, as it is known,
Is about the accumulation of imaginary conceptions.
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.
Only in a very serene mind, only in that awareness,
Can the mystery you truly are, be realized.
493
Unhook the engine, let loose all the baggage cars.
Be that sharp-cutting-edge, up-front-and-center awareness,
That which was never born, that which never dies,
That which You truly are and are not.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
You see and hear and taste and smell and feel,
Through the mind-body filter, to which you are so attached.
The memes of dreamtime have molded you into a pattern you think you.
Only by discerning the indivisible awareness prior to the nature-nurture programming,
Can the essential, intrinsic freedom, of that which is timeless, that which is eternal life, be truly won.
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
Not easy to let go of all you imagine you are, and are not, in this absurd little dream of space and time.
The monkey-mind will seemingly do whatever it must, to preserve its countless illusions.
Absolute attention – desireless, fearless – is the key to eternal freedom.
* * * *
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?
* * * *
Just because it is all infinitely one, does not necessarily mean,
One must indiscriminatingly love everyone and everything.
There can be joyful serenity in being indifferent to it all.
497
Are you really this form, this mind-body?
Or is it merely a vehicle for consciousness to play out its dream,
And you nothing more than a passenger, a witness;
Awareness, timelessly observing it all.
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.
* * * *
This brief dream is likely just a one-shot dog and pony show,
In your mind-body’s, so very vain sliver of forever,
So, enjoy it as best ye may, while ye may,
For it will all be over sooner than soon enough.
* * * *
Even the most vile foe, is teacher to you, and you to s/he.
There is no occurrence that has not played its part,
In your reaching this moment in dreamtime.
You may not much care to offer heartfelt thanks,
But the truth of it, best be acknowledged for what it is.
* * * *
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
The addictive mind is an insatiable mind, a consuming force, obsessed with every possible extreme:
Food, sex, alcohol, drugs, religion, power, fame, fortune, materialism, greed ad infinitum.
A habitual, undisciplined, pride-filled mind, driven to debilitating dependency,
By what is really nothing more than a kaleidoscoping sensory theater.
Ever running from the aloneness, the stillness, the essence,
Of the indelible mystery permeating everything.
* * * *
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 ecstasies, of agonies,
All cavorting in eternity’s indivisible stillness, in every way imaginable.
* * * *
Why investigate and corroborate anything and everything to your satisfaction?
Because you are a scientist, and resolute, exacting reflection, is first and foremost.
* * * *
Nothingness is the timeless 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 unborn-undying here now.
The mystery has been labeled by many names, to which, it has never even once answered.
500
Pretend you are already dead.
Die to time, literally be here now, right here, right now.
As still as the morning dew, totally alone, eternally present, not a care in the world.
All knowledge vaporized, no family, no friends, no enemies, no problems.
No attachment to the agonies and ecstasies of the sensory feed.
Unequivocal negation of any and all assumptions.
No body, no identity, no possessions.
Just attentive awareness.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
The awareness, the spirit, the soul, the essence, the mystery;
How can it be said to belong to anybody, if not everybody and everything?
In the raging sea of metaphors, it is all very much the same.
* * * *
What is any given mind but a set, a bag, an array, of programming.
A circulating loop of habituation, conditioning, brainwashing.
A frame of reference believing its thoughts real and true,
Its manufactured identity sacrosanct and enduring.
* * * *
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.
* * * *
What are the shades of gray between black and white,
Good and bad, right and wrong, right and left, bitter or sweet,
Or any other dualistic notion born of the monkey-mind’s play of time?
* * * *
The difference between any you and any me, is all in our heads, is 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.
* * * *
And if it is perchance in your cards to figure out this mystery of mysteries,
How far will you glean it? What will you say? What will you do?
How will you play this, what might be called, fate of fates?
The Last Page
Every one, the same quantum indivisibility, playing the manifest theater real.
Every one, the immortal essence, peering through mortal eyes, feigning a mortal game.
Every one, as free, as aware, as their shard of spirit demands, and mind allows.
* * * *
Those whose destiny it is, to become seers, ponder many things,
Until they gradually become aware of the foundation of consciousness itself.
And in that observant attentiveness to the awareness that never sleeps,
Their minds perceive that from whence all things come and go.
And in that awareness, merge back into the indivisibility,
Of the eternity that is, has ever been, will ever be.
* * * *
Is there any creature, any form, fashioned in this vast universe,
That does not journey to the conclusion of its paradigm?
All nature is naught but patterns within patterns.
All functions of the same choicelessness.
All programming of quantum design.
Indivisible within one and all, for all eternity.
* * * *
The quantum indivisibility is sightless,
Soundless, senseless, odorless, and tasteless.
Only in consciousness does any universe appear real.
* * * *
If the world, if the universe, was truly real,
How could it, would it, every instant be changing?
Only You do not change, only You have ever been the same,
Only you have ever been the one and only You,
Awareness, witnessing a dream.
* * * *
The Tao, by whatever sound you call it, is always the same.
The same as when you were born; the same as when you die.
The same as before you were born; the same as after you die.
Life is a brief opportunity to view it the same while you exist.
* * * *
That quantum essence that you truly are, cannot die, for it was never born.
You are eternity, the stuff of stars, come to life in a dreaming of time.
There is no who, no what, no where, no when, no why, no how.
You are the nothing more, the nothing less, the nothing but.