I see you struggling with the daily challenges, searching for a better way to be and to breathe more fully amidst a litany of heartbreaks and heartaches and all of these moments come and go in the blink of a decision made or undone. Presume nothing and take all your moments as the precious gifts of consciousness in which a choice is made again and again to return to breathing and feeling and worshipping the self in the only way that matters; the only way that shatters every egoic presumption and fires off synapses with the delight of heavy unction to the displeasure of a frightened ego.
Why is the ego frightened?
The ego is frightened because it knows itself without the acceptance of a love encompassing. It seeks out romance, perchance, salvation in the other and a solitary vision of reliving memory into infinity without bothering to feel the heart beat or the cheeks when they greet another face with a mirror of loving gratitude for these precious feet that bear us ever onward and upward, and downward and secretly spiraling even as we are admiring the obviousness of our fate here on this earth in these fantastical bodies of cartoonish proportions. I am only as proportional as my mind allows contortionism outside the realms of opportunity and perpetuity and ingenuity borne of a human air. Like an Irish air, bittersweet melancholy that evokes indescribable joy inside inconsolable sorrow.
This heart dreams the dreams of eternity that everybody feels, even if we don’t always know how to put into words the essence of our own creative desire to return to the source we think is far away but in fact is deep inside our guts. My guts are well aware that something grows within them and yet my mind refuses to acknowledge the wisdom grown in endless acres of intestine over lifetimes of mammalian memory. Bacterial sages that have been through the thick of it and learned the best ways to digest the hidden sensations flowing heart to mind, mind to bowel, bowel to sewer because that’s the value we give to our own internal processes in a culture of bodily exclusion born of historical delusion and shadow discomfort.
I am the singer, the dreamer, the feeler and the believer in you.
You who are me.
I who am you.
We who only exist because of one another and in spite of our separation that bleeds us dry at the scabby laceration points. Lucky for us it is these scars that keep us aware of the inconsistency of our condition and hold us ever mindful of a need for re-integration. The very wounding that beguiles and astounds holds within it all the lessons we think we have forgotten but really we need only to remove the sunglasses and look into the brightness that is our Self. They say the moth is not drawn to the flame because it seeks the brightness, but rather that Moth is seeking the darkest point, just beyond the other side of the obvious sensation; a valuable lesson. Go toward the light not to bask in ascendant holiness, but to seek the source of the deeper, darker sensation we attempt to avoid in premature revelation.
This is the revelation:
There is no light without darkness.
There is no me without you.
Within the tired regions of my meaninglessness lay your formlessness and our collective desire to merge into the cosmos and know ourselves as co-creators in the Universal process. Our deepest desire is to believe that which we already know inside, the powers we possess inside of our rising and falling chests; the seat of creation in our pelvic thrusts; the anonymity of responsibility within the whole perfect vision of creation.
This vision is my vision.
I envision a long-term, metamorphic scope for this project called Earth, Awareness, Homo Sapiens Sapiens. The reflexive vision of creative power turned back upon itself to reflect upon its own majesty un-self-consciously.
Joyous heart.
Singing heart.
Dancing heart sees itself and knows its own warmth in the light of bodily vibration. Waves of motion sweep the chakras and all the centers know themselves completely in the light of cell-by-cell activity. Infused with energy these cells become aware of the role they play in a devout and holy way, rising to the task of their own self-created image of divinity. They find a balance of activity and receptivity wherein they hold all versions of potentiality within an ever-broadening dimensionality that refuses to sell itself short.
This is the story that my heart tells me in the quiet moments:
I am my own creation and my salvation lies inside my deepest devotional centers. The central identification is one of breath, vision and creation, rooted deep down in my body’s hearth center: the place that was first ripped to shreds before I knew how important it was. My fire lost a lot of coals and it has taken a long while to rebuild the central flame, but now that I know what the fire is for, I can choose to tend it lovingly, gently stoking and turning the logs of my inquiry amidst the ashes of hate burnt up and blown away in ceremonial circumstance.
This may not be the proper answer to the question of this final paper, yet it is the best way I know to express my means of inner manipulation toward a more wholesome sense of self. Between the lines I hope to find a sense of calm that eludes my mind when it gets thinking itself into a circular geometry while forgetting the perfect symmetry of divinity. If I simply allow my fingers the freedom to play with keys and rhythms held under distinct configurations of vowel-consonant-vowel-vowel-consonant, I tend to find some hidden meaning that only reveals itself when I shut down the ego mind for a long while and listen to the wisdom of the body morphic. It is this topography that feeds me daily with the benefit of a counter-key telling me that green pleases and yellow delights me too times the tender timetable letting me know the answer before the question has been formulated by the second-guessing peanut-gallery that sees one portion of the map decontextualized and yet not at all demystified by speaking plainly and gaining a sense of awe and rejuvenation around the center of my heart’s vitality.
My heartfelt experience struggles to explain itself with inadequate language that serves only to confuse a felt knowing that needs no explanation and resists a definitive contemplation that will only result in deflation. Mental migration is the only irrigation worth tending to in moments between sensations rendered invaluable by the popular mind under virtual-hypnosis therapy.
It is the belief of this self that the hours and years are here to teach us something beautiful about the usefulness of a fleshy incarnation and it seems as though we freeze through mental seizures dealt daily by the green-grass-brigade marching down side streets so as not to seem too obvious about their takeover of our senses. It is to the relief of this self that the opium is losing its potency these days and the heart is taking center stage to demand a relational convocation within the conflagrations attended by recovering addicts to the age of the media plague. Up in smoke we go and all that’s left is a sense of self wondering who turned on the lights.
Lucky for us this heart knows best and easily picks up pieces of ash to mix with earth, plant and cultivate toward new growth.
When I breathe deep I see infinity sultry-sleek, languorous and wild, joyous and free-formed. My exponential expansion comes in light of my very nature and so I simply act according to an internal dialogue that knows me better than I do.
And I cry. I cry for the state of the world and the unseen and unacknowledged darkness that drives the forces of excess to deny the heart its freedom to sing and dance and create itself freshly in each moment. I cry the tears of separation that convince us to destroy one another as if we were not one and the same Selfless entity called divinity or energy or vibration.
And then I move. Waves of vibration wash over and embrace me and my whole self dissolves into oneness with the beat of a unifying drum. Then there is the exhale, combined with a gesture of releasing and surrender to the very present moment. Weaving in and out of fellow movers and shakers I elate in my maker, the grand inquisitive creator stirring in my vital center and awakening with a slow crawl up my spine to render me ecstatic—bones and muscles often rigid find themselves suddenly supple, greeted with the mystical energy of the serpent who is no longer dormant. All my centers intertwine and play with one another as I ride the wave and taste the brave substance of my truest self as I come out to play the evening away. In the midst of chaos my breath and limbs are all there is and blood beats fast and fierce to the tips of fingers and toes, cheeks and nose. I am undone and so blend in with the light and shadows in the room. I am light and shadow. No more nor less dense than all that calls itself consciousness.
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