This fleeting mystery is a whimsical kaleidoscope.
An eternal, immortal weaving; without beginning, without end.
A boundless, indivisible ocean of light and shadow, in which all forms dance.
All one can observe of the mystery, are the countless manifestations;
Never the dispassionate, unwavering witness beneath.
* * * *
All mythos, all sense of time, all sense of history,
Is nothing more than the make-believe of adults.
* * * *
What you call real,
Is merely a reflection,
A temporal, dreamy illusion,
An enticing, ever-changing lightshow.
Your true nature is none of it.
* * * *
So many words you cleave your Self into.
* * * *
The infinite source of manifestation,
Is tasteless and untouchable;
Without vision or sound or fragrance.
What one perceives is but imagination’s reverie.
The vague, obtuse, ephemeral quality of awareness called intuition,
Is as near to understanding as any one can ever come.
* * * *
Be serene, content, alert, cheerfully at ease.
It is your original state, your birthright.
It requires no choice, effort, or contention.
No outward manifestation or proof is required.
It is a natural state of awareness, of simple beingness.
An effortless wander in the unconditional, timeless aloneness.
* * * *
To maintain any one path most true,
To insist on duality in any way, any shape, any form,
Is to completely misconstrue the relativity of this manifest dreamtime.
* * * *
Worship martyrs, crosses, statues, crystals, photographs,
Nature, wealth, words, ideas, or whatever your own will manufactures,
Or simply attend nothing but your own momentary awareness.
But for the sorrow of continuity, in all but the latter,
All dreams pass in the same manner.