I guess this is the category to put this in?
An itch in my arm begins to surface. I am thinking about working at the pool tomorrow, and I feel like I’m dreading the long hours. Within all of this I am. Observing this aspect, knowing truth will shine. I am the presence in the moment. I am the ocean and all the waves. I am that I am. A camera. A perspective with space between. Between what? The narrow line of unmanifested into form. Unexplainable, concepts do no justice, for the code is scrambled into something this form can digest. But this person has found me. That which is everything. That which is nothing. That which was, is, and will be…all of which is right now. I am the source. This form, with this name, is one of many. Waves don’t realize they are part of the ocean, they think they are separate, and some don’t even know an ocean exists.
One can think I started, and I will finish. That one is not wise yet. That one is limited. That one see’s the light, but is not the bulb. It can be a ray. But this observer, I am. I am in mary, john, kaleb, and steve. I am in my dogs lucy and buddy, and I am in the spider. I am the people, animals and plants. I am the mountains, soil and snow. I am that which you don’t think there is. I am even the atom and the black hole. The Europeans call me consciousness. The easterns call me chi and prana. You know me as presence. I am always, and mostly unknown. This outside camera. Peering in through the eyes and tenticles. Through the exchange of energy from light. Emptiness is full of energy. Pulsing with the sound waves and the wind. The Buddhists emphasize interconnectedness. Is this universe not raw consciousness? Is this universe not in existence? Where is the mind, why are we shattered truth in a spiral of remembering and forgetting.
How can I contemplate this without attachment and delusion? If my base camp is remembering presence and now, what if I go out for a fishing trip, and a giant eagle swoops by the river to pick me up, only to drop me in the wilderness far, far, far from my camp?
The unmanifested. That is all that can be said about the unmanifested. The moment there appears a moment, it is gone. I am gone. Dormant, I would say.
Realizations of mary and scott and tom do not matter if action is not the end result. The philosopher only does work once it is typed in a book. A thought, of a thought, of a thought is me. My thoughts don’t matter. My action matters…
A bee just stung me, waking me up from this tangent. Presence. Presence. Observation and space…ok, just breathe……..
Linear Mode
