In confusion kernelled in a mask of control, we wore this subtle flesh, that grew tired, heavy and punctured, no longer concealing a deeper nakedness. And when it fell away, I died, yet in dying still, I sing a song of life – that you might truly hear.
Listen, listen, listen, my beloved. For I talk to you through dark curtains of pain that fall between us as if we were two. Listen with the emptier, infinite purity of light – where resistance falls out of its complex of power, and meaning is irreverent. In this listening, the subtler sense appears: not over there, but here, within you, where you and I are one.
You see, you believed you were someone else. But all forms are made of similar stuff. Scarlet finds scarlet and green finds green – each vanishing within the other. Even difference can’t divide: feel how rough longs for smooth; cold longs for warmth; water longs for air; darkness longs for light; and I long for you, although we never met.
We’re made of the same, even in distress of division – even in that, we are one.
Perhaps you don’t believe, but beliefs are histrionic chains. Why drag them around? Where are you taking them? What destiny do these rusted shackles have in heaven? Sooner or later, you’ll let them fall, so that you may rise.
Seeking unity, we mimicked the mirage. We copied our reflections. And all this seeking birthed the lost child, in lostness tracing the perimeters of a private imago. Seeking somewhere, elsewhere, ahead, behind, above, below, another space, the other side, we cut past from future and present from both. We exhaled otherness and dreaded our own expiration. We imagined birth, life, and death without being touched – smoke-screening communion as if we could hold it in states of non-dissolution.
Touch me now, for, in touch, the lonely traveler chasing the shadow of bliss awakens.
Consume the fear that says you must explain, justify, apologize, aggrandize, diplomatize and fantasize a source of all we are. Feeling too much we find we are never enough – the horror of bottomless lack and the freezing of overfill. Yet the wind whispers that we are immeasurable, in this touch, right here, right now in the invisible centre of the intimate core of the heart.
Yes, it hurts, those abrasive edges where illusion rubs against himself with battlefield cries. It seems that without the fight, there’s no light and without otherness, we lose ourselves. This losing, how we fear it as if the pretense secretly knew that all was always already lost. The game is up.
Yet wait a little longer and listen. When the light of conflict subsides, and the loss is done, we can find ourselves seamless as this formless, luminous glow emanating from the heart of this and every other matter.
