In our hearts we know the futility and the fundamental fear of our vanities. We make well intended promises and hold ideals, false, above all else, longing for something outside ourselves in which to believe that can surpass the diligence of the passing of time. Never before has there been such truth, wrapped as we are in our inner worlds, in myth. Mind manifested in form.
Our time, unillustrious, mocks the wonder and wisdom held within our bodies, the miraculous body mind harangued by the vagrant strike of the clock, and the insidiousness of the culture. However, free from the confines of the temporal, free from our prescribed roles and duties, lives the light of our ethereal formless Self. It is accessed in quiet moments, the twilight of the dream state, and the ecstasies of the creative process in its many forms. I am you are me are we here forever now never always in eternity world without end. Suspended in the guiles of the ever present now, shape shifting, timeless, beyond the grasp of any threat, save those we allow to trespass into our reticulated presence.
Even then, the phantasms we allow are allegories, insights into the depths of our collective and personal psyches. Our deepest fear: that we will be found out as illusionists, perpetrators of an elaborate amassed treatise of smoke and mirrors. Wanting for substance. Worse still, the thought that no one remains to remark or comment in our absence because, horror realized, all is one and all is vanity, and nothing vivifies that which is without, but that which is reflected within, and we are all (un)regarded in the vacuity of the uninhabited.
Yet somewhere along the way, in spite of ourselves, we stumbled into the light life. As children we awakened and wondered at the complexity of our human-ness. Perplexed, we awed in the realization of our divinity, struck down by the audacity and verisimilitude of the Creator. Now that quiet gift, so uncertainly come by and so fruitlessly clung to, is worn like a shrift. Once sacred, now tattered, the blessing realized is curse, it both saves and damns. In our self realization we can equally create heaven in each moment, knowing the kingdom is within us, or, forgetting our benevolence, plunge into the constant torment of a twisted karma of legality.
To evade the responsibility of choice we retreat to the safe confines of a conformity attributed to schedule and regularity. We are comforted in the once resisted entrapments of minutiae and false reassurances of the expected. No longer bolstered by naivete, we are caught in the crux of the unknown - the promise of uncertainty certain before the credulity of chaos. Unable to embrace the depth of the formless, we make due with the reality of our daily diligence, captives to the cadence of the circadian. A quiet care is tended in reverence of the commonplace. Salvation in the world of form. A crisp apple. Water from the faucet. The predictable and fleeting rush of chemistry experienced in a new love.
A well worn lesson is finally assimilated: completion is never secreted within the cocoon of another. Disparaged at first, then content in the realization of the grand illusion. Contact with each fragmented luminescence of personality a jogging reflection, or echo, of our own creation. Like Narcissus we are drawn back time and again to gaze into the waters of our subconscious made manifest in the intricacy of another sentient. If we can only hold in dialectical tandem, for more than a moment, our own ego fragility and the fragility of another in balance and hallowed care, All would be preserved. The lyrics of Idol's "Dancing with Myself" bounce round the corridor: "Nothing to lose, nothing to prove"- Self relating to Self. Too often, however, the All is lost and we fall from grace back to the unjust world of the criticizing and commonplace. Fear, not hope, reigns supreme.
Creation in the Word was first error as the Many in One, divided into form. In labels - not considered outside the immanence of a verbal cognitive structure - we judge and are judged in each syllable. Was man entreated to name each object and thought form in Christendom as a gift? Or was he awarded the knowledge of good and evil to be damned in the process of differentiating the forms? Now consciousness is no longer self but Other. With all the world a stage, and each player an emanation of the One, we wonder at the relevance of performing. So in our essence, sublimely righting this, we commit the greatest crime and forget that all that is external Other is Self also. Thus continues the dance.
Confounded, reluctant, calmly, we move beyond the grandiosity and are sated in knowing our best dwells in our least. In our non-doing we are released from the desire to need to be, instead succumbing to the beauty and the brilliance found in what is. More and more we are satisfied with less and less and conservation is a cultivated vestment of budding character. So as the self, unseeking, loses itself, it is preserved. In time and in correspondence, this is reflected in the transpersonal, in the communal, in the global, so where there was once disharmony and division, there will be a balance and a sovereignty in each entwined breath and step. We are kept in the care of our humility, not knowing if it is fate or faith, or both, with which we contend and is that which keeps us. The dregs of the rest settle to the bottom as the light matter raises and awakens to the wonderment of itself, undefined, uncrowned, servant, self-less. Sentience an echo of the formless
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