The Present Eye Praises The Present Object.

How to put it? Not easy. Wherever I seem to be, whatever I seem to do, it is the same thing; it only looks and feels and sounds different. Whatever it is I ever thought I was looking for, was always right there, is always right here. Fulfillment and wholeness is the quality of life, and life is simply whatever seems to be happening; there is no Africa, merely thoughts of Africa; and if I seem to buy a ticket, board a plane, and land in Africa, there is only Africa, and that is exactly the same as wherever it is I seemed to be before; it only looks and feels and sounds different. There is just this, whatever this seems to be; whatever the thoughts and actions that seem to happen, it is the same thing, in a different guise. It doesn't matter what you label this; everything is God; oneness, beingness, wholeness, the still source; it is what is. The separate thing that notes this is not a separate thing; there are only thoughts, whatever the thoughts contain. It matters not a whit. Yet everything matters, its intrinsic value in its mere existence. Whatever this is, it is whole, complete, in balance, even if the thoughts opine it is not. And all there is, is now; it is all there ever is; all we ever have is the present, if you care to label it that, this, and it is endless, timeless, even if memory and speculation seem to make it a story of growing up and growing old. Nothing has changed, nothing can change. Yet everything has changed; the extra baggage of a constructed self is not taken so seriously, by no one; the thoughts opine this too. This is it, as Michael Jackson named his last (and sadly never to be seen) series of shows at the O2. Whatever it is, is what it is, and what it is, is this.