you never existed, yet you will die
A broken heart your only tether
To a song that sang you long ago
the dreamspell is shattered
infinity dissolves in your mouth
words are liquid mirrors
reflecting nothing
is this my heart howling
or is it yours?
it is love singing
and listening to her voice echo in our hearts
love is not the source to this song
there is no beginning or end to this magic
there is no magic
nor love
it is this very singing that paints this enchantment
when it stops
just for a moment
you and your world disappear
love and her song disappear
outside of this dream spell you are not
there is no one spell bound
you are the magician's tale
why would you want to leave the dream
there is no outside
you cannot leave love
love cannot leave you
no one is born
Bodies are born
Selves are stories that emerge when the brain has learned enough words to create a dream world of separate things and an imaginary you
the belief that there is an unchanging thing... source or true self or ........fill in the blank.... is a tent pole holding up the sky....
what? there is no pole holding up the sky?
isn't there any thing I can count on? not even love?
nope, no things to count, no fingers to count with, no sky to fall, no heart to be full or empty of love... no words to say what can never be said, no thing to say, no one to say it....
Thinglessness is simply unbelievable, unimaginable, ... it cannot be, yet it is, and is not....
when people say there is nothing happening, it seems like the opposite of there being something happening... there is nothing nor something, nor is there not nothing, nor not something, ....
‘what the hell is going on, then! someone has got to know!!!
where is the answer!!!
if you can't tell me I will find another book guru, teacher workshope satsang... '
...and they leave ...and so so many have flowed through these waters for a dance of hearts.... some stay for the poetry.... some seem to like the deliciousness of unknowing that these songs can induce, but it doesnt seem to stick, there is no where for words to stick when we are words.... and the song continues to sing itself....
just like this
love dreams itself and seems to dance us into her wings.... that never were nor were not...
soaring as edgeless beauty through endless sky...
dancing through ocean reflection of butterfly kisses
light pirouettes with light
and we seem to appear as the heart beat of memory fills in the line between sea and sky... a horizon appears... the beginning and the end of the dream are the dream...
we are bathed in the dream of sunset
hovering
light and shadow gather shapes and colors of lovers
holding hands
breathless in love and awe
we see that it is us
imaginary dancers in this dreamland ballet...
no one ever danced
or wore this beautiful sunset
or fell in love
and yet, I am here, as real and unreal as you and love, loving you
and I cannot imagine anything better
who decides what ignorance and misinformation is? the only reality 'you' can know is inside that thing you call your skull
and we can never know what the color red looks like to another... we can never know what love is like even for our closest lover....
the apparent meaning is what we seem to agree upon... this shared dream of separation is painted by these words that have no meaning nor non meaning....
it is amazing that we seem to be able to communicate at all... as we are isolated galaxies of thought,,, and can never actually see another galaxy or another's light.... all light seems to appear in our mind....
here is the world.... your unique world... we are all unique stories, but painted with the same words
joy and sorrow merge and its realized there is no you separate from feeling... that feeling is a most wonderous story...
feeling anything at all feels amazing....
no trying to capture or change this flow this story this unbelievable wondrous unowned life... this intimacy of aliveness... closer than close... no veil between an inside and outside... just an imaginary persona through which songs seem to pour... an edgeless heart that seems to have sides so echoes of love can resonate... into a heartbeat... this heartbeat... our hearts
beating
together
it is the sound of our aliveness
the song of this and that
light and shadow and
colors
blooming and wilting
emerging and dissolving
simultaneously
life arises all by itself and self erases
breathless
in love
with love
that girl that woman that wandered empty beaches looking for sand and
endless sky
and love
is gone
it feels like I am this love song that no one sings
there is no longing to find her footsteps
filled with tears and wind
swept melodies
people used to warn me about not looking in the mirror when I was tripping
but I loved the empty eyes...
I would stare and stare
utterly fascinated...
after the shift it is like that... there is no 'catch' of recognition, 'oh! I am that!'
it is all a flowing three dimensional wall paper made of nothing, less substantial than thought...
it is not even flowing... as there is no one or thing unchanging to observe it... there is no it or absence of an it....
it feels like love pouring through love... edgeless ocean of love
warm and wonderful and filled with tears
no is is this waterland dream song
no one is not
wondering through the wintering garden
sheltered by clouds hanging in leafless trees
carpet of sparrows rushed into the tangling roses, as I searched under the fallen leaves
looking for summer
looking for love for peace for some thing I could hold
so time would not pull me
so fear could not consume me
so the magic I sensed could be known
always
looking within and without, looking for forever and never
slayed by imaginary dragons breathing love's fire,
the searcher was lost
consmed by endless wonder
and the flowers on my dress begin to bloom as I fell into the scent of no tomorrow
why need a driver for a dream car?
What I’m talking about is not even unspeakable or a mystery or emptiness...
without thought there is not even anything
there is no before thought or outside of thought
this is the knowing feeling of no solidity of the utter emptiness of all thing-ness and the stark emptiness of emptiness
It’s not even a void
it’s not even an it
Only through the thought stream made of shared learned words does all and everything seemingly arise...
river of love has no banks other than its own echo
we are our imaginary sides
there is no middle
there is no leaving this river as it paints you
and me
it paints itself
just like this
you know this aliveness of which I sing
just like you drink water and know that it is wet
this 'knowing' is not separate from you or the water or the wetness
as this river of life is not separate from you
plunging down deep dark canyons
sliding across wondrous meadows
meandering through ancient deserts
as you bathe in the reflections of days and nights
moons and suns
and long summer grasses peering over the banks
it is a wild ride and seems to look and feel like anything at all
including your desire to escape
to crawl out of the river and lay on the banks
and wait for the final kiss
that will make you whole
the river will dissolve into the ocean soom enough
meanwhile there are others flowing with you
love and love lost
wars and arguements and making up
baked potatoes
and singing in the kitchen
life dancing through you as you
and it has always been just this uncapturable unknowning-ness
there is nothing to hold onto
no certainty
the river cannot hold or move itself
it is it's movement
how marvelous this desire that seems to move you
this longing is the river
it is all river
there is no river
and the words flowing through her head began to sound like a foreign language, and there was no need to deciper them... she loved the resonanse the echo that had no source...
ideas of true and false and meaning... and even the idea of ideas became like the sound of sparrows and finches flitting through the garden... all parameters of this and that and up and down and here and there dissolved... and the sun bloomed in a heart that was no longer hers.... that had never been hers... there was no one to have a heart...
and yet this felt like love somehow, this utter unknowing.... no one left to be bound or free felt like the most excellent freedom... it was if she had been viewing the world through a long tube and suddenly the tube dissolved... and the lines between herself and the universe disappeared... more intimate than intimate,,,
yet far far away a distant song poured through the dream of a dream of a dream of a dream.... washed through all and everything with a melody that had no sound other than all sounds... had no silence other than the hush that runs through itself... no words other than these words that seem to fly out of her fingertips....
we are echoes of echoes the wind cannot tatoo...
ocean calls and we are its answer
falling through the words there is only endless ocean
above
and below
there are no edges
no beginning nor end
moon pours into its own reflection
light blooms in our eyes
and our world appears
life writes itself
there are no pages
no stage upon which life appears
yet lovers are dancing
war and hate and oceans of tears
golden finches at the feeders
rose petals
falling
emerging from the ocean of darkness she sat on the edge of nothing while her wings dried
the sun bloomed in her heart and her eyes painted the world with love
I know that this is frustrating to be told that there is nothing to get and by the way there is no one to get it or not....
no one who can do or not do anything or nothing....
where does that leave you what does that leave you?
simply where you have always been... neither here nor there looking for a there wondering if there is a here...
waiting for a next but starting to glimpse that there is none...
running around with a butterfly net trying to catch the sky...
oh! but how beautiful the sky... and your arm reaching... and your tears falling watering the garden with reflections...
life has always done itself, you were never at the helm, you were never the thinker or feeler or do-er or desire-er... there has always only been this thought stream made of shared learned words... seeminly dividing the stream of perceptual input into light and shadow and
colors...
and things like a you and a life and a world... and things like thought ...and feelings and actions...
but you have never been able to find the beginning of a thought or moment or action just as it happens or an end to a thougtht or moment or event... have you...
could this indicate that there is no separate watcher or observer of thought or action or life itself..
you know that life has no outside to it... you cannot step outside of what seems to appear and observe it, can you?
can you really manipulate life? is life really happening to you?
what is this thing you call you? what is this thing you call life?
can these things be known, really? you would have to be separate from them to know to touch to hold them... and life cannot be held, we cannot understand life. we can only describe it...
and in this flowing description, we seem to appear...
go ahead and tell me what you are, what life is, without thought?
petaled filagree of moon carpets the garden path
no actions are required
no steps are needed to participate in the dance of this obvious dance of aliveness that dances you dances me dances all and everything into this water ballet dream scape of long low light and shadows richocheting in the canyon of this and that, of magical reflections twirling with refelctions, of endless echoes that no one hears but seem to appear in the hearing the tasting the touching of this that can never be touched or tasted or felt... but is always and is always not this timeless magic hour this eternal golden this one and only flowing momentary descending into the sigh of no tomorrow
and just like that this obvious aliveness takes your breath away and it is your breath this very breath...
breathing itself
life kissing itself
in the knowing of knowing
our very humanness
is this dance
drinking water and knowing its wetness
no religion no philosophies are necessary
nothing need be learned
love is like that, isn't it
and beauty....
perhaps we love love and beauty so much
is that we dont know what they are
but we know them
love has no boundaries
no steps must be taken to reach it
or find it
you know that
can anything really be known outside of the description
words cast nets into a river
and can never capture its wetness
wetness a word...
word a word...
love is a word
I love you
and I was lost in the echoes of infinity...
dissolved into nothingness
beyond confusion or understanding...
as tears began to flow
I found my eyes
and my tender softness
nothing wears this nakedness
this wetness
this life
halfway to nowhere is not even nowhere
light bathes in light
swirls through empty shadows
erases the notion of dark and light
and anyone dancing in this dream land ballet
that
seems
to
dance
itself
how can i hug the world when I am not separate from it
love slides off the mirror
nothing is left behind
not your reflection
or mine
the mirror cannot hold the absence of love
it exists only as reflections
like me
like you
like love
butterfly winds fall through the sky the trees the garden
walls
swoon through all your ideas of wind
and stillness
and you
gravity seems to erase itself
as the sky swallows you
love falls... up
up falls.... down
and you are neither here nor there
as love gives you her sideways glance
and pulls you from your placeless place
into the dance
that you never really left
it was merely the longing to escape
that tied you to the ground
there were never any scaffolds
holding up the sky
nothing to climb
nowhere to be
look down at your feet
they have always known how to dance
and love
has always known how to love
Self is the assumption of separation ...that there are separate things and events, so it is natural for you to assume that if there is this, there is that,,, but there is no this nor that nor both nor neither. there is no nothing nor is there not nothing... life is all of a piece, of itself so... this cannot be seen by the imaginary self but seems to be recognized by the story teller, the brain that uses shared learned words to paint this dream of separation which we are... this thought stream that when stopped, stops creating this worded world, this magicians tale, this hologram... without thought there are no things, nor the absence of things...
there is no one asking and no one to be asked... and yet here we are apparently texting on computer screens oceans apart.
what is imagation?... it is whatever your brain thinks it is...
it is obvious that all words are defined by other words...
it seems like you are looking for the magic word... when I was growing up the magic word was 'please', but I do not think you want that... you are the longing for an answer, for some solidity, for something to hold on to.... you are the looking for knowing... for understanding...
and yet... there are no things to gather into a place of rest or understanding and no one separate from the illusion of separate things and events to do so...
you can feel that great maw of emptiness ... it pulls you calls you and you cannot run away no matter how long you hang onto the river there is nothing but water...
I can feel you trying to run away from yourself... but you never can... you are an imaginary persona in a passion play... there is no escape, no door no key no magical place where you will arive.... there is no other or better or more or next... and you know this, that there has never been anything other than what seems to appear, and simultaneously dissolve...
self arising and self erasing life seems to happen all by itself, there is no one or thing making it happen...
is it happening or not? we can never know... as this is as real as it gets... there are no enlightened beings who have escaped the dream, there is simply no outside or inside... or middle...
there are no awakened ones who know all the answers, no holy ones who feel more love than you... no one knows how anyone else feels... I cannot even know what love feels like for my closest lover...
you are utterly alone, an isolated galaxy spinning in an endless darknesss.... yet... you can see other galaxies... but you can never actually touch... and that is the great aloneness that we all share... this broken hearted beauty is our humaness...
we can be alone, together....
it will be over soon enough... and while you are here.... there are sunrises and small birds and colors... everywhere...
this worded world this magicians tale 'known' world of things and events and time... and death... this is the only world we can ever know.
and yet, somehow, there is love...
I am a reflection in a movie running backwards and forwards at the same time
constantly crashing into and through itself
neither moving nor still
meaningless words slide through the alphabet and disappear
I am a liquid portrait of echoes
exploding and imploding rainbows flow through me as me
slide through empty reflections
fall
gently
on the beach
run laughing into the waters
skim the surface of unknowing
dive deeply into endless sky
never finding or losing anything
or nothing
neither lost nor found
nor in between
we are love's music listening to herself
I am an imaginary point of view
a rip in the sunset
weeping
we are a closed loop of words
we are cloud castles and our world is clouds...
we can never get a glimpse of sky
yet sky... somehow
like love
seems to slide through the clouds
not seen nor un seen... but felt always...
sky dances in sky, through sky... as sky....
what does that say about sky
what does that say about love
what does anything say except to tatoo the wind with meaningless sounds...
what is wind
we say we know what wind is
you can feel it on your skin
see it dance in the long tall trees
watch whirls of leaves swirl and dance across the frozen ground
but what IS wind?
all you can say is just more words to try to capture the wind
this swirling thought dream that paints us and our world
has no edges, no beginning nor end... and no place to arrive
a liquid cat's cradle of words pouring through itself
no one knows more about wind than you
no one knows more about love than you
no one feels wind more than you
no one feels love more than you
there is no knowing what love is
no knowing what life is
no one separate from life to capture and hold life
or love
there is no wholeness or one-ness or unicity or diversity
its all unicity
its all diversity
and not
there are no its outside of thought
there is no outside
or in
there is no knowing what is, or is not a what
words seem to capture a piece of sky
but there are no pieces of sky
its all sky
there is no sky
and the morning bloomed inside of her and somehow love recognized her face without knowing what love was
and no longer cared
and she seemed to live and love much like before
knowing there is no before
nor after
drifting in and as this sublime unknowing
singing songs to the sparrows
as they sang to each other in the tangling roses
what are poems but collections of words
what are words but snapshots of memory
what is memory outside of the word
is there anything outside of words?
or is outside a word?
words are words are words are words
words seem to paint a picture of a world
with time and space and light and shadow and
colors....
saying the word
word
makes it seem like there are things called
words
and yet, this aliveness, this thing we call life cannot be captured with words like aliveness or life, it isn't really a thing you can throw a lasso around and take home
yet words flow
tears flow
love flows
life pours through me as I am life
anything I say is just more candy sprinkles floating on a sea of ideas
what is life
what is beauty
what is love
perhaps life doesn't have to understood
certainly the beauty of love and beauty
is that they cannot be captured
things like truth are just more ideas
no one really knows anything
oh you can learn to fix a faucet
but nothing can stop the leak in your heart
this achy breaky heart
is everyone's heart
this love
is everyone's love
this beauty
is everyone
that there is no one is just another idea
I love songs that say nothing and leave nothing left to be said
songs slide through the mirror
paint trails acrosss endless sky
pull your heart into impossible places
leave it hanging in between never and forever
dissolving into this
very
hush
no longer looking for the beginning or end of rainbows
you are the song that sings itself
A broken heart your only tether
To a song that sang you long ago
the dreamspell is shattered
infinity dissolves in your mouth
words are liquid mirrors
reflecting nothing
is this my heart howling
or is it yours?
it is love singing
and listening to her voice echo in our hearts
love is not the source to this song
there is no beginning or end to this magic
there is no magic
nor love
it is this very singing that paints this enchantment
when it stops
just for a moment
you and your world disappear
love and her song disappear
outside of this dream spell you are not
there is no one spell bound
you are the magician's tale
why would you want to leave the dream
there is no outside
you cannot leave love
love cannot leave you
no one is born
Bodies are born
Selves are stories that emerge when the brain has learned enough words to create a dream world of separate things and an imaginary you
the belief that there is an unchanging thing... source or true self or ........fill in the blank.... is a tent pole holding up the sky....
what? there is no pole holding up the sky?
isn't there any thing I can count on? not even love?
nope, no things to count, no fingers to count with, no sky to fall, no heart to be full or empty of love... no words to say what can never be said, no thing to say, no one to say it....
Thinglessness is simply unbelievable, unimaginable, ... it cannot be, yet it is, and is not....
when people say there is nothing happening, it seems like the opposite of there being something happening... there is nothing nor something, nor is there not nothing, nor not something, ....
‘what the hell is going on, then! someone has got to know!!!
where is the answer!!!
if you can't tell me I will find another book guru, teacher workshope satsang... '
...and they leave ...and so so many have flowed through these waters for a dance of hearts.... some stay for the poetry.... some seem to like the deliciousness of unknowing that these songs can induce, but it doesnt seem to stick, there is no where for words to stick when we are words.... and the song continues to sing itself....
just like this
love dreams itself and seems to dance us into her wings.... that never were nor were not...
soaring as edgeless beauty through endless sky...
dancing through ocean reflection of butterfly kisses
light pirouettes with light
and we seem to appear as the heart beat of memory fills in the line between sea and sky... a horizon appears... the beginning and the end of the dream are the dream...
we are bathed in the dream of sunset
hovering
light and shadow gather shapes and colors of lovers
holding hands
breathless in love and awe
we see that it is us
imaginary dancers in this dreamland ballet...
no one ever danced
or wore this beautiful sunset
or fell in love
and yet, I am here, as real and unreal as you and love, loving you
and I cannot imagine anything better
who decides what ignorance and misinformation is? the only reality 'you' can know is inside that thing you call your skull
and we can never know what the color red looks like to another... we can never know what love is like even for our closest lover....
the apparent meaning is what we seem to agree upon... this shared dream of separation is painted by these words that have no meaning nor non meaning....
it is amazing that we seem to be able to communicate at all... as we are isolated galaxies of thought,,, and can never actually see another galaxy or another's light.... all light seems to appear in our mind....
here is the world.... your unique world... we are all unique stories, but painted with the same words
joy and sorrow merge and its realized there is no you separate from feeling... that feeling is a most wonderous story...
feeling anything at all feels amazing....
no trying to capture or change this flow this story this unbelievable wondrous unowned life... this intimacy of aliveness... closer than close... no veil between an inside and outside... just an imaginary persona through which songs seem to pour... an edgeless heart that seems to have sides so echoes of love can resonate... into a heartbeat... this heartbeat... our hearts
beating
together
it is the sound of our aliveness
the song of this and that
light and shadow and
colors
blooming and wilting
emerging and dissolving
simultaneously
life arises all by itself and self erases
breathless
in love
with love
that girl that woman that wandered empty beaches looking for sand and
endless sky
and love
is gone
it feels like I am this love song that no one sings
there is no longing to find her footsteps
filled with tears and wind
swept melodies
people used to warn me about not looking in the mirror when I was tripping
but I loved the empty eyes...
I would stare and stare
utterly fascinated...
after the shift it is like that... there is no 'catch' of recognition, 'oh! I am that!'
it is all a flowing three dimensional wall paper made of nothing, less substantial than thought...
it is not even flowing... as there is no one or thing unchanging to observe it... there is no it or absence of an it....
it feels like love pouring through love... edgeless ocean of love
warm and wonderful and filled with tears
no is is this waterland dream song
no one is not
wondering through the wintering garden
sheltered by clouds hanging in leafless trees
carpet of sparrows rushed into the tangling roses, as I searched under the fallen leaves
looking for summer
looking for love for peace for some thing I could hold
so time would not pull me
so fear could not consume me
so the magic I sensed could be known
always
looking within and without, looking for forever and never
slayed by imaginary dragons breathing love's fire,
the searcher was lost
consmed by endless wonder
and the flowers on my dress begin to bloom as I fell into the scent of no tomorrow
why need a driver for a dream car?
What I’m talking about is not even unspeakable or a mystery or emptiness...
without thought there is not even anything
there is no before thought or outside of thought
this is the knowing feeling of no solidity of the utter emptiness of all thing-ness and the stark emptiness of emptiness
It’s not even a void
it’s not even an it
Only through the thought stream made of shared learned words does all and everything seemingly arise...
river of love has no banks other than its own echo
we are our imaginary sides
there is no middle
there is no leaving this river as it paints you
and me
it paints itself
just like this
you know this aliveness of which I sing
just like you drink water and know that it is wet
this 'knowing' is not separate from you or the water or the wetness
as this river of life is not separate from you
plunging down deep dark canyons
sliding across wondrous meadows
meandering through ancient deserts
as you bathe in the reflections of days and nights
moons and suns
and long summer grasses peering over the banks
it is a wild ride and seems to look and feel like anything at all
including your desire to escape
to crawl out of the river and lay on the banks
and wait for the final kiss
that will make you whole
the river will dissolve into the ocean soom enough
meanwhile there are others flowing with you
love and love lost
wars and arguements and making up
baked potatoes
and singing in the kitchen
life dancing through you as you
and it has always been just this uncapturable unknowning-ness
there is nothing to hold onto
no certainty
the river cannot hold or move itself
it is it's movement
how marvelous this desire that seems to move you
this longing is the river
it is all river
there is no river
and the words flowing through her head began to sound like a foreign language, and there was no need to deciper them... she loved the resonanse the echo that had no source...
ideas of true and false and meaning... and even the idea of ideas became like the sound of sparrows and finches flitting through the garden... all parameters of this and that and up and down and here and there dissolved... and the sun bloomed in a heart that was no longer hers.... that had never been hers... there was no one to have a heart...
and yet this felt like love somehow, this utter unknowing.... no one left to be bound or free felt like the most excellent freedom... it was if she had been viewing the world through a long tube and suddenly the tube dissolved... and the lines between herself and the universe disappeared... more intimate than intimate,,,
yet far far away a distant song poured through the dream of a dream of a dream of a dream.... washed through all and everything with a melody that had no sound other than all sounds... had no silence other than the hush that runs through itself... no words other than these words that seem to fly out of her fingertips....
we are echoes of echoes the wind cannot tatoo...
ocean calls and we are its answer
falling through the words there is only endless ocean
above
and below
there are no edges
no beginning nor end
moon pours into its own reflection
light blooms in our eyes
and our world appears
life writes itself
there are no pages
no stage upon which life appears
yet lovers are dancing
war and hate and oceans of tears
golden finches at the feeders
rose petals
falling
emerging from the ocean of darkness she sat on the edge of nothing while her wings dried
the sun bloomed in her heart and her eyes painted the world with love
I know that this is frustrating to be told that there is nothing to get and by the way there is no one to get it or not....
no one who can do or not do anything or nothing....
where does that leave you what does that leave you?
simply where you have always been... neither here nor there looking for a there wondering if there is a here...
waiting for a next but starting to glimpse that there is none...
running around with a butterfly net trying to catch the sky...
oh! but how beautiful the sky... and your arm reaching... and your tears falling watering the garden with reflections...
life has always done itself, you were never at the helm, you were never the thinker or feeler or do-er or desire-er... there has always only been this thought stream made of shared learned words... seeminly dividing the stream of perceptual input into light and shadow and
colors...
and things like a you and a life and a world... and things like thought ...and feelings and actions...
but you have never been able to find the beginning of a thought or moment or action just as it happens or an end to a thougtht or moment or event... have you...
could this indicate that there is no separate watcher or observer of thought or action or life itself..
you know that life has no outside to it... you cannot step outside of what seems to appear and observe it, can you?
can you really manipulate life? is life really happening to you?
what is this thing you call you? what is this thing you call life?
can these things be known, really? you would have to be separate from them to know to touch to hold them... and life cannot be held, we cannot understand life. we can only describe it...
and in this flowing description, we seem to appear...
go ahead and tell me what you are, what life is, without thought?
petaled filagree of moon carpets the garden path
no actions are required
no steps are needed to participate in the dance of this obvious dance of aliveness that dances you dances me dances all and everything into this water ballet dream scape of long low light and shadows richocheting in the canyon of this and that, of magical reflections twirling with refelctions, of endless echoes that no one hears but seem to appear in the hearing the tasting the touching of this that can never be touched or tasted or felt... but is always and is always not this timeless magic hour this eternal golden this one and only flowing momentary descending into the sigh of no tomorrow
and just like that this obvious aliveness takes your breath away and it is your breath this very breath...
breathing itself
life kissing itself
in the knowing of knowing
our very humanness
is this dance
drinking water and knowing its wetness
no religion no philosophies are necessary
nothing need be learned
love is like that, isn't it
and beauty....
perhaps we love love and beauty so much
is that we dont know what they are
but we know them
love has no boundaries
no steps must be taken to reach it
or find it
you know that
can anything really be known outside of the description
words cast nets into a river
and can never capture its wetness
wetness a word...
word a word...
love is a word
I love you
and I was lost in the echoes of infinity...
dissolved into nothingness
beyond confusion or understanding...
as tears began to flow
I found my eyes
and my tender softness
nothing wears this nakedness
this wetness
this life
halfway to nowhere is not even nowhere
light bathes in light
swirls through empty shadows
erases the notion of dark and light
and anyone dancing in this dream land ballet
that
seems
to
dance
itself
how can i hug the world when I am not separate from it
love slides off the mirror
nothing is left behind
not your reflection
or mine
the mirror cannot hold the absence of love
it exists only as reflections
like me
like you
like love
butterfly winds fall through the sky the trees the garden
walls
swoon through all your ideas of wind
and stillness
and you
gravity seems to erase itself
as the sky swallows you
love falls... up
up falls.... down
and you are neither here nor there
as love gives you her sideways glance
and pulls you from your placeless place
into the dance
that you never really left
it was merely the longing to escape
that tied you to the ground
there were never any scaffolds
holding up the sky
nothing to climb
nowhere to be
look down at your feet
they have always known how to dance
and love
has always known how to love
Self is the assumption of separation ...that there are separate things and events, so it is natural for you to assume that if there is this, there is that,,, but there is no this nor that nor both nor neither. there is no nothing nor is there not nothing... life is all of a piece, of itself so... this cannot be seen by the imaginary self but seems to be recognized by the story teller, the brain that uses shared learned words to paint this dream of separation which we are... this thought stream that when stopped, stops creating this worded world, this magicians tale, this hologram... without thought there are no things, nor the absence of things...
there is no one asking and no one to be asked... and yet here we are apparently texting on computer screens oceans apart.
what is imagation?... it is whatever your brain thinks it is...
it is obvious that all words are defined by other words...
it seems like you are looking for the magic word... when I was growing up the magic word was 'please', but I do not think you want that... you are the longing for an answer, for some solidity, for something to hold on to.... you are the looking for knowing... for understanding...
and yet... there are no things to gather into a place of rest or understanding and no one separate from the illusion of separate things and events to do so...
you can feel that great maw of emptiness ... it pulls you calls you and you cannot run away no matter how long you hang onto the river there is nothing but water...
I can feel you trying to run away from yourself... but you never can... you are an imaginary persona in a passion play... there is no escape, no door no key no magical place where you will arive.... there is no other or better or more or next... and you know this, that there has never been anything other than what seems to appear, and simultaneously dissolve...
self arising and self erasing life seems to happen all by itself, there is no one or thing making it happen...
is it happening or not? we can never know... as this is as real as it gets... there are no enlightened beings who have escaped the dream, there is simply no outside or inside... or middle...
there are no awakened ones who know all the answers, no holy ones who feel more love than you... no one knows how anyone else feels... I cannot even know what love feels like for my closest lover...
you are utterly alone, an isolated galaxy spinning in an endless darknesss.... yet... you can see other galaxies... but you can never actually touch... and that is the great aloneness that we all share... this broken hearted beauty is our humaness...
we can be alone, together....
it will be over soon enough... and while you are here.... there are sunrises and small birds and colors... everywhere...
this worded world this magicians tale 'known' world of things and events and time... and death... this is the only world we can ever know.
and yet, somehow, there is love...
I am a reflection in a movie running backwards and forwards at the same time
constantly crashing into and through itself
neither moving nor still
meaningless words slide through the alphabet and disappear
I am a liquid portrait of echoes
exploding and imploding rainbows flow through me as me
slide through empty reflections
fall
gently
on the beach
run laughing into the waters
skim the surface of unknowing
dive deeply into endless sky
never finding or losing anything
or nothing
neither lost nor found
nor in between
we are love's music listening to herself
I am an imaginary point of view
a rip in the sunset
weeping
we are a closed loop of words
we are cloud castles and our world is clouds...
we can never get a glimpse of sky
yet sky... somehow
like love
seems to slide through the clouds
not seen nor un seen... but felt always...
sky dances in sky, through sky... as sky....
what does that say about sky
what does that say about love
what does anything say except to tatoo the wind with meaningless sounds...
what is wind
we say we know what wind is
you can feel it on your skin
see it dance in the long tall trees
watch whirls of leaves swirl and dance across the frozen ground
but what IS wind?
all you can say is just more words to try to capture the wind
this swirling thought dream that paints us and our world
has no edges, no beginning nor end... and no place to arrive
a liquid cat's cradle of words pouring through itself
no one knows more about wind than you
no one knows more about love than you
no one feels wind more than you
no one feels love more than you
there is no knowing what love is
no knowing what life is
no one separate from life to capture and hold life
or love
there is no wholeness or one-ness or unicity or diversity
its all unicity
its all diversity
and not
there are no its outside of thought
there is no outside
or in
there is no knowing what is, or is not a what
words seem to capture a piece of sky
but there are no pieces of sky
its all sky
there is no sky
and the morning bloomed inside of her and somehow love recognized her face without knowing what love was
and no longer cared
and she seemed to live and love much like before
knowing there is no before
nor after
drifting in and as this sublime unknowing
singing songs to the sparrows
as they sang to each other in the tangling roses
what are poems but collections of words
what are words but snapshots of memory
what is memory outside of the word
is there anything outside of words?
or is outside a word?
words are words are words are words
words seem to paint a picture of a world
with time and space and light and shadow and
colors....
saying the word
word
makes it seem like there are things called
words
and yet, this aliveness, this thing we call life cannot be captured with words like aliveness or life, it isn't really a thing you can throw a lasso around and take home
yet words flow
tears flow
love flows
life pours through me as I am life
anything I say is just more candy sprinkles floating on a sea of ideas
what is life
what is beauty
what is love
perhaps life doesn't have to understood
certainly the beauty of love and beauty
is that they cannot be captured
things like truth are just more ideas
no one really knows anything
oh you can learn to fix a faucet
but nothing can stop the leak in your heart
this achy breaky heart
is everyone's heart
this love
is everyone's love
this beauty
is everyone
that there is no one is just another idea
I love songs that say nothing and leave nothing left to be said
songs slide through the mirror
paint trails acrosss endless sky
pull your heart into impossible places
leave it hanging in between never and forever
dissolving into this
very
hush
no longer looking for the beginning or end of rainbows
you are the song that sings itself
you feel your lips your tongue your heart mouthe the words
that dissolve into letters and spaces
meaningless lines and squiggles
seaweed strands on an empty beach
the song of this and that
left by the tides and
collected into the folds of moon when she returns
gathering love songs
into her wings of
reflected
light
in breath
out breath
just
this
breath
...and as memory unwraps the present
revealing the nakedness of sight and
listening
deeply
to the moon's last sigh
all reason is stripped off the clothes of knowing
there is no paper underneath the photograph
we are the emerging lines and colors bursting into this three dimensional symphony
of what no one can say
is the river made of water?
or does it exist only in its movement
is there movement
when there is no before or after?
there simply are no separate things nor one big thing, nor separate events nor one big endless event to change or remain the same...
it's all in the words
there are no words
there is no 'stuff' of which the universe is made other than thought
and thought is well,
thought
I love you
what is love
what are you
what am I
nothing can be known
there are no things
nor are there non things
there is simply no thing called knowing
and no one to know
or not
nothing is required for this unknowing
no beliefs or thoughts need be unwapped
they are the beautiful flowing fabric of you
under your obvous beauty
there is not even nothing
what is beauty
what is nothing
what is a what
Wonderful, stunning..
ReplyDeleteThank you ❤