Monday, 25 May 2009
So, Ere You Find Where Light In Darkness Lies, Your Light Grows Dark By Losing Of Your Eyes.
It's easy to be, and there doesn't need be any change at all, not any the dreamer can do anyway. This is the gift, the dream, this is what is. And the appearance rocks, despite the parts of the appearance who believe the entirety of the appearance is going down the toilet. Everything is an endless miracle blah blah blah, but some of the more obvious ones - better health, better communication, more compassion - are worth noting. Whatever seems to happen in the world is no better or worse than whatever has ever seemed to happen to it, despite the clucking tongues of those judgmental arisings in oneness. It's in balance for sure, and everything is another face of love, even those fanatics gripped with hatred and fear, using bombs to make their point; yet here we are, it seems, in all of this, and this is what it is, and it is a miracle it exists at all. Some of these pointers - people who write about Advaita or whatever the proper terminology in late May is - believe the story is at a hot point, that many are seeing the fragile, illusory nature of the appearance, that egos are dying left and right, that the energetic shift is appearing to happen to many of the little stories that seem to walk around, that there is some sea-change. Maybe, maybe not, it matters not. Liberation from the dream is always available, but it doesn't need to happen; if it's meant to happen, it will; if it's not, it won't. The longing for it is the highest security prison. There is simply nothing wrong, or nothing right. This is always enough, always freedom, always a prison, always chattering, limiting language; always questioning, always disgruntled, always ecstatic, always everything. Timeless being, no one doing, no one, just one. This is perfection. There is nothing to be done but what is done.