Thou Shalt Never Get Such A Secret From Me But By A Parable.

Striving, striving striving; this is never enough. It's never good enough, it's never big enough, it's never happy enough. It's certainly never harmonious enough. Life sucks, and then you die; at least there is black and self-depricating humour in that sentiment, a fatalism, an acceptance of the futility inherent in the story of life unfolding, in the pathos of the human condition. Yet there is great joy available too, available as the balance to the despair, and we tend to want that safety, that love, that obvious feeling of comfort and well-being to stay, and to never change. There are so many approaches. There are some types of personality that love a challenge, that thrive on adversity, that need an obstacle to unleash the full potential of their gifts and talents. We like these heroes, those who meet all impediments head-on, rarely flinching, who are courageous in some organic, natural, easy way, who overcome, who channel the Universe, who succeed. We like the antiheroes, the bad boys and girls, whose naughtiness conceals a heart of gold; they are "good" after all. We hope for an Age of Aquarius, long predicted in our collective consciousness, where petty, fear-driven aspirations and concerns are no more; we live in love, we nurture each other, we value others and our home, we tenderly care for ourselves and our neighbours, and strangers, for there are no real strangers. This is the taste of nonduality for some apparent individuals; the true recognition that we are one consciousness, and in that recognition, certain actions naturally follow. We would not allow another to go without basic needs; we would not rape and pillage the Earth, our home; we would glean all our evolution and growth through improvement. Striving, striving, it can always be better: where is the ceiling? Who knows what miracles man can accomplish if unfettered by fear, unconcerned with mere survival, and unrequired to fight for space and territory, which is now all naturally shared? Or perhaps a Utopian vision of gentle peace; the lack of the need for striving, where everyone is content, and stimulated, by the mere existence of a leaf, a flower, a child's laugh, the gaze of a loved one. It is enough, whatever it is, as long as it's sweet and good and beautiful, loving and gentle and nurturing. Whatever the vision, whatever the envisioned goal, whatever wonderful world is wanted, it cannot surpass the perfection of what is. These goals and visions arise; there is striving, there is muddling, there is reaching out to bridge the chasm that seems to exist between us. Yet all this is the greatest beauty. Even the discontent is perfect. Apparent change may or may not seem to happen; but whatever seems to happen, only seems. It is the perfect game, the perfect life, the perfect world, the perfect being. Exactly as it is.