At this moment I try not to attach to any one ideology or belief, thinking I live in illusion, and that, even the thought of illusion and knowing a semblance of truth, be further illusion, if illusion be. The complexities rendered through the delving of mind are both baffling and intriguing, pulling me in like the piece of an engine longing for lubrication, its sole purpose found in the concept of functionality. There is no other need, but to be anointed in the telling, so I can proceed forward in a time of no procession; this is indeed troublesome, and not, as no burden be found in a place of no time bent into illusion; thusly, it is so that even the emotions that purge from within and without are naught, but the imaginings of ghosts long ago past.
In saying this I prelude my own entrance, a necessity within no necessity; but nonetheless established as a fleeting truism for the traveler beset with weariness. In knowing my truth is not truth, I am thusly freed from the agony of discrimination of self; the endless dissection that occurs, rightfully and dutifully so, when one sets about to cling to illusion of form. In so being I am formless, and this argument, if claimed to be a quarrel, quibble say but light it be, exists phantom too, than whom does whittle with words, with such speech gathered from the where and when? And this, my friend, displays the propensity to be traveler lost within traveler. Precise to say, to recognize the dream is to be the dreamer, and in so being the one at slumber all is weaved into further name-saying causation. Instead of scribing truth, I merely dictate what is thought to be truth within my circumvented reality; therefor, unless I was to gather the truth of agelessness and the potentiality of the All and lather this upon the minds of the singular, I do nothing justice; say my own tethered thoughts still set out to sea, bobbling in the waves of uncertainty.
I speak this not to set the stage for trust or to further prove a point of no point, as there is no point worth proving when no point exists; nor is this trust I speak of, need be, for in form I appear not trustworthy no matter what I mumble, as I am in guise as this ruthless one set upon high or worse the victorious one celebrated. In the eyes of man, I can be none but judged; and there the dilemma is set; for how to curve an aspect of enlightenment without throwing the ball at the very victim who perceives himself to be. In this way I am nothing; neither scapegoat nor scriber of the ways, neither angel nor devil worse, or even the pen that hankers from the very end of limb; I am none and I am All, and what one sees is neither here nor there in this place of nonexistence.
How weary I grow in even telling such a tale of no tale and how my hands weep from the desperation within, further proof the illusion grows; to hide and never recede, to come forward but never enter, to move without ability to see, this is the truth; yet, how does one born of the singular I move in a world born of We, when each, as separate made, choses their own captivity? Tis foolish man’s game, one supposes, to even breech the subject of immortality when everywhere the banners fly blood; come hither, to this space of mine, she preaches, and at once scorned with the rest; perhaps this is the truest form of freedom, to be as the bird of song and not flee from the stones that follow; to sing at the top of the peak and not fear the fall of the morrow; for my song is unleashed upon the highest, and meek not I be; for no river nor valley has captured me; and all is unsung that never was.
How can I be such butterfly with unclipped wings, when all about I dance in the dirt and soils? How can I be the babe nearly birthed, when the canal of opening seems so variably charted and boarded still? Am I not a queen emerged without her captain, on a ship without sail, in a land of no sea? How I navigate in a ghastly wind of nowhere and land again and again upon the very stone I once passed. What is this me, who dangles her memories like sapphires and counts them as rubies expired? Who merrily sings as the serpent unwound, un-skinned, and turned magnificent; who am I but this trellis before me, the ins and outs of where the others leap and bound; am I both prisoner and freedom maker, trapped in the makings of my doings, unraveling one and then another to find myself time and time again; some traveler trapped in a dream of no morrows and no beginnings; waiting for time to peel back as mere shadow set upon thee.
Is this my cause? To rest as mermaid on the surface of earth while weeping tears of the oceans before me? Am I to be starfish drug out and enamored for her legs alone; plucked one by one from the depths of nowhere only to be brought up to the rim of naught; circle dancer I seem, trapped in this funny limbo; awakened and spirited, yet alone in my quest of no quest; for how can it be that in being me I am the key; yet I be not? And how can it be, in being you, you are the me, and you be not? How can this brain of no brain wrap around infinity and spring up anything renewed in renewal, when at my very depths are the limitless breaths of knowing; where shall I begin when there be no start; and how shall I end when timely death has all but vanished, leaving but his cape, the dark shadow of remembering banished.
Laugh, I dare not, as the gleeful me is no cause for celebration; and what to celebrate in such a dismal state as this; and weep, I cannot, as what is for the crying worth, when all about is the toys of puppeteer lost and scattered, abandoned with the coming of the unraveled wavering truth; to be given such a task of no sacrifice, but to feel the shells of sacrifice, as if each had been splattered and fired upon some soul of thee; to be given the world in a cup and to glance down and behold eternity calmed, yet know not what to drink but the vision beyond; how can I be such vision and such mortal, wrapped in this infinite coat of knowing, spread open, the flaps as distorted wings discolored in doubt. How can I be this butterfly broken, when surely the simple embrace does cast illusion silent and heart-strings grow, carrying the essence of me freely without the need of form?
Butterfly or ghost? What be I; magnificent or tangled, what am I? Can you not rescue me now before I surely split in two; the idol of want, the taste of judgment, the enticement of lies, eagerly eating away at the flesh I once was; as I stir in my chrysalis of unrest, evaporated by the ever peace of naught, haunted by the unearthly voices of angels, my living blanket of tranquility the one that trumpets doubt forward. Where am I inside this invisible film, my being wrapped and then wrapped again, suffocated in incubation, brought out to the fire of transformation, and made to nibble at her own skin; when suffering is promised not, when answers never were, when everywhere is hungry ghost whose appetite has vanished through; who is this dreamer and of what does she dream, if not of the place beyond dreams that I am to break through; but how, is her only question; how in the light of your ultimate glory can I testify this truth through the pages of illusion-maker; how can I prove what is not to be proven; how can I dance to the invisible music of invisible air and weave something of nothing; and so it seems, I must rest eternally, until eternity surrenders; and I, let out of this suit of circumstance am thusly braided into ceaseless sky, awoken not wingless but weaved into completion, the very heart of light freed.