Sunday, 22 February 2009
This apparent message is one of no hope for the individual. There is nothing and no one, nowhere to go, no one to go there if there were. The mind strings it along into a story of cause and effect, but there is no story. There is only this. But mind you, this doesn't suck. I was washing up a knife, so it seemed, one day, and without fanfare all there was was this. Nothing had changed, except what was happening wasn't happening to me. And that's not quite what I'm getting at, because there are no words to describe this. Say you're walking along the street one day, and suddenly...whoa. This is it. All these things I've been looking for, this is what it's been all along. "All along" isn't quite right either, because this is timeless. All there ever is, is this. When, exactly, is "now"? When does the past become now? When does the present become the future? How long is the present? Even one millionth of a nanosecond can be segmented into smaller parts. How long is segment that is now? All we ever have, is this, whatever "this" seems to be doing. It sings and sweeps and cries and crouches and sleeps and laughs, in timelessness. It is love if you want to label it that, it is the song of freedom that constantly sounds through all the apparent senses. The funny thing is, everybody has it. Everybody is it. It is desperately sought by some, some call it God and pray to it, making it very weirdly and unaccountably even more separate, but people have called God is everything, every atom, every feeling, every apparent act. The person who wants it so much veils it. There is no hope for that person. But there is hope that the dream can shatter at any "time".