You worry too much, seems to be the consensus but we are what we are, you know? And yet driving west the snowy fields are full of diamonds, prismatic radiance glittering as far as the eye can see. God is love, love is all, om shanti amen et cetera. Will you be here when it all goes sideways, which it always does eventually?
Moody’s Life After Life, which I read too intensely too early, adults basically ignoring my reading habits which created a lot of problems in my thinking decades later. We are what we eat, amongst other lies. Darkness is cumbersome but also easy to rest in, don’t complain. My wind tunnel soul, my cinder block heart.
My long hard fall falling apart? We don’t say much but what we do say is kind and easy, mostly helpful, befitting love. Some veil is being drawn revealing a world which after you’re done ogling it turns out to be merely another veil. Welcome to an apple so cold it hurt my teeth.
Oneness is mostly a matter of seeing the nonconceptual awareness in which all perceptual experience cashes out. We are left with stories, still births, static, stains. How in winter it hurts to think of certain children’s graves under the earth, the earth itself beneath layered snow. I’m an antique radio, a nineteenth century music box, I’m Cinderella saying fuck the ball, Icarus landing to find his father dead and the world changed, now what.
Sitting on the front porch watching rabbits play where grass tangles with an ancient fence. Before dawn Venus glitters between bare limbs of frozen maples. I’ve forgotten something but I can’t say what, so we’re going to have to do this cold. Practice obscures perfection, perfection cannot be studied.
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