Belly of a Star

my practice of compassion

Still, I am

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What is it about me, this invisible someone, that is made to feel irreversible in her vulnerability and compassion?

Shall I move as jester, through my past, and pull out the elements of cause, or shall I instead, center myself here, in balance, and move through as water, exploring the avenues of my reason?

I am this and I am that, but still I remain the same. Some unidentifiable, ever shifting substance. And yet, the others, some of them, the few I suppose, find pleasure, or at least vitality, in claiming me for what they see, for what they believe to know.

I don’t know. It is such a randomness, this world; how it plays out like a ring-circus-game. Leaps and bounds, rest, and cheers. Thumbs down or cash collected. Divided, dispersed, and brought through again, we are, as clever dictators unraveled into mice. Round and round our cages.

I cannot understand where I live, for whom I live, and for whom I breathe, if not for some higher purpose or good. For some reason beyond this limiting float-less self, that sinks beyond barriers and rules, and becomes blade between what is and what is not. Spinning her motor and dissecting the whole into various parts of nonsense.

I am affected. I am affected over and over by the toxins of the world, by the very labeling of the words, by the birthing of word, by sound, by vibration, by all that exists as movement. And all spins. All spins past me and through me, and in me, cycle upon cycle of life and death.

And still, I am.

Unrecognizable in this outfit I have constructed. Not recognizable in reflection. Not motionless enough to grasp or comprehend.

The worse of it, this variance of invisible self, coming when the demons approach, with their envious ways, and hunched backsides. Seeped over and over in righteousness of self and prosperity. Wanting to dominate, control, center life around their essence, success and wholeness.

How they penetrate me, this semblance of substance I am, with their wicked ways.

I am to them what they are to the world. Untouchable. Lustful. A chaser of dreams. I am to them this evil set inside to turn a spell.

And it is here I sit; not long, not for an established time, not for ever, just for a speck of eternity, in their shell of claimed humanity, in their piercing-bellowed echoes of judgment and non-acceptance. In their shattered self replaced with hate.

Here I sit as them, and breathe out what can only be torrential rains of days gone wrong. Where hollowed out souls screamed for comfort and received none. Where the brevity of a callous life became the very sword that slashed out eyes to all that is. All that was. All that can and will be.

If I be surgeon, then to them I would establish sight. To see again, if only for the splendid second of recourse; that all is, has already been, and will be; continuously spun by the emptiness spawned, until surrendered, and brought up again into the wholeness of All.

And then, and only then, set right upon the laws of justice, the opened-heart revealed, with all that is naught set asunder into the flowering of self, shall We breathe again. The falling retrieved, and the masked silence brought to life as one voice of freedom birthed.

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