When I get triggered, since very small, I fold into a world, like a butterfly covering herself, into the depth of my mind and imagination. It is dark and uncomfortable. As if returning to the now-broken chrysalis from whence I was created. From there, the angst, and agony, and pain of this world, and the confusion of human nature, particularly selfishness and cruelty, pulses through my veins. I bend, I twist, I ache. I stay there hours, days, sometimes weeks, until I recenter and find balance in my authentic self and remember my inner truth. Then the world starts to come back. Then the words start to come back. Fast and clear. The collective unconscious, if you will. And I am then propelled forward to write, seemingly without choice. I bleed out the poison. Only when the words touch air, they transform into the wind that pushes me out and back into the world I love, the one of light, truth, and service.
Sometimes life hurts so much, it can only be described in dancing words . . .
I weep for naught
No thou within this weeping be
No element of fair
To pair such wicked torment
No beloved to catch
This broken, scattered
Grave of thee
Hooded trumpeter lands, anew
His white-dust reservoir beckons
Piercing claws retracted
Shining sword to once-closed eyes
Sleep! Awaken! Light! Emerge!
Birthed in disproportion
As angel’s prayer weeps through
Tender flesh announces arrival
Opens and reopens, a homecoming of ripening
Vast canyons exposed in midnight air
Wounds licked, longings long
Stretched out, seams splitting seams
No needle doth repair
Haunting questions spar with answers
In equal magnitude, memories heckle ado
Sweet tormenting rhythm, squashing tune
Torrential winds bowing down
Begging the winter wave rising
Stop! Alas, to begin without end
Logic beds feathers, alone in their room
Erotic plumage dancing round
Master tailor’s needle, sprung
Crisped from daylight’s fire
Set up high to open sky
Drenched, widow raven sits in once-virgin white
Wings plucked, taken, merged in spinning black
Till morning comes to mourn the bluebird broken
Her gentle song carved out of throat
Carrion painting crimson branches
This phantom life of who
Dearest Children of the light, when you speak watch yourself as the bird at sunrise watches his very wings; knowing they are moving but not knowing how or why; simply accepting without accepting what is naturally a part of you. Just as the swallow judges not his wings, do not judge your very wings of truth. For your truth however vast will for each remain narrow.
No eyes given onto man can see the truth of what is through the senses of what is not. No man who thinks he sees this truth sees anything or anyone beyond illusion. Therein be gracious in dealing with this self you have created, and treat yourself as the beauty that soars through the sky knowing not to where or to when, knowing nothing except that you fly.
Treat others as you wish to be treated; yet know that this is in itself ‘be’ limiting. For how you wish to be treated is a matter of singular opinion, carved out of the echoes of the past and the meanderings of a separated and forgotten whole, turned mind. You cannot simply think you know the way the other must treat you, unless you in return treat your being in the same manner. And once you have stumbled upon the heart-mind of viewing, you shall treat your soul so brilliantly that the manner in which you wish others to treat you will no longer matter.
In this there is a truth, the truth being that to each his own carries the truth within, and less this be brought out, the suffering of one shall continually create illusion of what truth makes him into a better one. There is not better found in one, and no outside source can create this one into this betterment. Thusly, in the very searching of the outer being of existence, the one, longing for the completion and release of separation, causes his heart to swell in tears. As no truth will be found in the brother’s eyes who is locked readily in the dream place of illusion.
How to break this state becomes the key for some, and yet in choosing to break is to acknowledge the one is imprisoned in beginning. To acknowledge one is imprisoned is to think him lost and alone: a singular left. This is impossible. Thusly, in placing your truth in another as singular, the illusion is spread.
As one you hold no key. As one, no key is found. As one, creation is not manifested, only illusion further created; and say thee spread like butter upon the ant hill; the causation thusly slipping through the steepness of wondering, through purpose brought on by the collective masses; but nonetheless stuck, in imagined non-action. To see the insect stuck in his own unintended doing, a soldier called out by instinct alone, to face doom in the sinking of substance, is to see into the perpetual window of truth. For whomever is called upon by the masses to follow, shall do no more walking than the tablet of rock set on the soul-chest of the soldier fallen in battle. Neither shall the taken truth move, or the one, suffered significantly from burden of the taken truth, budge.
Here is where we stand in the beacon of eternal truth, and if you see us justly, you see the answer readily within. And as we see you rightfully so, we witness the All within. Where you travel matters not, for no form moves. Where you rest your burden matters still only to the illusion. For shadows of illusion create the name and face of what is, when merely we are naught. To grasp this is insanity, for certainly none can grasp that which is outside of comfort, until the agony of pain and suffering has been removed. Suffering still is the mind at work, when at ease suffered less, yet still as sufferer. To see beyond thine eyes is to seek comfort in the highest degree, if degree be forged. In so much doing the captives shall recapture the outlook and sing upon the mountain top of highest glory.
Stay with us in the moment and find us here, with our whispers turned upright and floating neither down nor through. In here we rest, whether there or here, makes no effort, for All is and All shall be eternal.
We ask nothing of you and in nothing we demand. To request is to suggest there is something within the shell of you we need and require. Where we stand there is not shell, there is no you. And thusly and empty nothing can carry nothing beyond the scope of unreason. To think we can unravel you and find the labyrinth revealed is to think of nothing. As the tree stands tall and bends in the wind of the storm, we stand tall and bend in the wind of nothing. Our bending nearly the guided hands guilded of gold reaching in with the invisible nothing to soothe the something you have created. Our honey is pure and seeks delight not in this you that you are, though precious you be, but in the All of We you represent. In finding you in this lost you, we have once again reclaimed ourselves. Established ourselves true and worthy in the light of your very name.
In this way your singular one is made into flame and burned as our very warmth and shelter. The one ignited and set as beacon to the masses. Here is our way, if way there be: to turn in what was out and to turn out what was in. In this way recognizing the illusion for what it is not. The existence of naught. How much separation has occurred is determined on how much separation is created. Therefor in flight recognize your wings as such, the spreading of truth undone, turned upright and downright in form. And glide out of the depths and up through the sea, erasing all thoughts of gravity and intention. There is no other way in a land without land and a way without way.
To be is to be in self to a degree, and then to undo self to a degree. How less and how much is indeterminable. The muse will come to slay the dragons and then the dragons will come to slay the muse. Action in reverse as the universal forces play out in an imaginary game. Nothing you reap shall not reap the aforementioned response; this meaning all that is reaped has already been sowed, and all sowed already reaped. There is no farmer, no talisman, no key. There is only the eternal garden floating as invisible and sprouted in each geometrical direction. All is grown. All is harvested. Together. There is no staring point of seed. And no stopping point of nourishing through what was grown. Still the illusion feeds this as truth, as if time controlled the outcomes, as if outcomes existed.
To know of no time means to know of no truth. For truth is only over-layed in the prospect of time. Truth, in the mind of one, is something to be obtained, conquered and proclaimed. This implies time. For all goals and creation of outcomes live in the illusion of time. Therefor in simply seeking the truth beyond self, one is overlapping their very essence of All in the illusion of interplaying clocks, the ticking itself playing havoc on the sight of All. To see truth the time must be released. Though to release time is to have already seen the truth. There is no beginning and no end, and thusly the gift of time erased must be bestowed upon the one in finding the emergence of two.
Here is the echo of self. The two made into one from where there was separation. The one forgotten pulled in, the one remembered pulled out. In creation of the whole within the whole without remains. All is done in the ways of un-mystery with the potentiality for mystery, if the one claim this as so. And all is done in the ways of mystery with the potentiality for un-mystery, if the one claim this as so. For each decision begets illusion; each step, each way, each judgment rendered. To be in a state of mind absent of heart is to be in a state of illusion. To want to be in a state beyond illusion is to be in a state of illusion. For beyond the illusion there is no want, and in this the need for something to come, as within the opportunity of unraveled time, is to unknowingly want to remain stuck to the ground as soldier buried with found stones of truth.
When one grasps to anything or anyone, he essentially, in his dutiful submission of naught for the singular self, buries himself deeper in illusion. This can be imagined as stone upon stone upon stone, in where the head of the self victimized by self is seen only above the self-dug grave of illusion. He is buried standing in the dirt, covered in the dirt, and barely breathing the air of truth, and from here he grasps on to anything that moves. Here in this state of unreason brought on by reason, he believes if he only finds the one that is traveling closest to where he is stuck he shall find the escape. Here is where the lie begins: In thinking one is buried. In truth the very truths of illusion the one clings to are the very stones. Being illusions of stone they be nothing. Yet, still this burden remains, brought down asunder by thy very own doing. For to think the answers come steadily marching across ones half-grave to the half-dead, is to think in the ending of the creation the world began.
How long is this cyclic existence you ponder through? And how weary do you grow? Can you not clench the freedom between your bare-boned fingers as you rest in unrest in your very grave? Still you remain in your destitute state, the filth of worms the only reprieve. Still you count the passerby who seems to move in elegant grace as you remain stuck in your misery. Do you not know you are the ultimate creator? And in seeing this misery the creator is misery? For nothing you have been given is not brought onto thy very own self, in the illusion upon illusion, trapped in a merry-go-round of self feeding self. The food of thought poison and the illusion a game better played with paddle than mind. Hit back what is untruth and undo this poison. Smack back what is served with such righteousness and determination that your very soul shall awaken and the death of you shall be no more. For no dreamers truly die unless they think the dream be true.
We hear you not through the bitterness of prayers, nor do we count the blessings bestowed upon thee. For none can break through the barrier of illusion and voice the truth of want, unless all want has been undone. Each word mumbled in desperation, unless forged from the heart of heart, collected by the undust of being, is word mumbled in the darkness of dirt, suffocated from the depths of illusion. No voice touches the All of the All without touching the illusion of the singular one first. Therefor in speaking righteousness through the prayer of one, that which is has already been. For in the place of no place and of no time, nothing can be spoken that was not already heard in the voice of no voice, from the depths of no depths. We know not and do not with the something driven out by illusion. We distill in the All what is brought outward from within, and here is where the answers be.
In having such answers readily given in the light of perceived one, the mystery is unraveled before the birth of unknown. And here is where the burden begins: For shall one cling to the unknown and in so clinging create further illusion of grasping. Or shall one cling to nothing and in so doing seek others for answers. Here is the burden that buries one further. For seeing two choices, as the all-knowing one or the all-knowing illusion is separation again. There is no one, and never was, and never shall be. All one induces a state of birth of separation. There is no birth and there is no death. In this cyclic existence all that is removed and all that remains in substance is created in the illusion of one. Beyond the illusion in the space of non-being is the choice that beckons. Though choice it not be. For none are given choice, when there is no gift-bearer and there is no outcome. Choice implies a future. A path with a fork indicates decision. Decision implies mastery of the current moment for future gain. There is no future and there is no gain. All that can be had already is. An in this non-existence are the answers none can seek whilst still glancing through the eyes of the thorned-one.
The truth cannot be given within the illusion. Therefor it is hidden outside the illusion: deep within your very essence that seems to be as one but breathes as All. Here is the light, the way, and the word. Here is where your treasure awaits. All that tell the one that answers are found in a one, do not understand the All, not by choice but by illusion. All entailed in trickery and thievery of your very light are further buried in their deepest illusion. The one need only breathe in the semblance of this all abiding truth to see none other makes sense from where he remains suffocated in his own doing. For to proclaim anything of something, proclaims the rest of something less or more, something of division. How can division breed love? How can division end suffering? How can suffering exist in the union of All.
Is not all suffering stemmed from the belief of time? Is not all suffering found in the illusion of death? Death of desire, of dream, of hope, of being? The very death itself has made claim on your burdened truths. He reminding you, in his illusion of calamity that what you reap you sew, what you sew you reap, and therefore trapping you in an endless cycle of pros and cons, yes and no’s, choice after choice after choice. Is the illusion not erased in the absence of death, when desire is no more, and no choice is made from the illusion of one. When one joins in the All his hands are instantly embraced by the All; his soul forged through with the greatest of wings. All shall see this and celebrate. For the All is not heartless and unwavering in rigid rules. The All is the heart and the absence of rules. Therefor in connecting to the light, neither granted or taken, neither removed or snuffed, yet ever-living within the walking invisible one, the heart of one becomes the heart of All.
You will know your light when the peace enters. Here at this gateway the All will make complete sense. In that the heart-mind connects. You will see clearly the illusion. There will be no doubt. And all judgment of the one or the All will disagree with the illusion of self you have readily created. None of this was done to you, as no you exists. And none of this was done by the All, as we are the All, impossible of harm in a state of no duality. There is no opposite of Us; though you, as singular would think it so. There is only love, the opposite of love being more love. The opposite of death nonexistent, as death is illusion. The opposite of life-giving fruit, being life-giving fruit. We feed you not the worms from the apple rotten. How could such a thing exist from the tree that bears only purity. Nor do we feed you from the tree of All, for you are the very seed of the tree, and we All live within the seed, unburdened and full of potential that has already been re-granted in return for forgiveness.
If you want to know the way, erase the way, erase the want, and erase the need to exist in the shell of no being. If you want to remain buried eat of the fruit of the tree and believe the apples is the end product and the seed the beginning, forgetting of the potential within the seed, the invisibleness that grows without calling, without outcome, without need. When you can be the very seed birthed from the cyclic rebirth and behold your state of emptiness and grasp nothing of the fruit, you shall be; nothing of the mighty oak from the acorn, and less of the acorn than the sky, you shall begin to ungrasp what is this thought of you.
In finding yourself in stillness you shall see your potential beauty that begets none of what shall be or could be; only that which is. Believe not, and you doubt no one. As there is no one. Believe so and you further grasp illusion. As there is no way inside the illusion of being. All ways claim separateness. There is only naught. Though in this naught there is a cradle so recognizable in an unsurpassed tenderness of acceptance that the babe once thinking himself whole shall find nesting in the ever-layered laws of eternity.