A usual summer day’s sandstorm had past by, leaving the plants in my tiny garden as if descending into their grave. Washing down the plants. Being hardly attentive to Tanya. She was going on about her job at the school and how everything would ave been different if she had decided to work at the local newspaper instead. Life was like dust and heat piled on everyday with a yearning of rain, trying to remember what it was really like to have the aliveness in her bones. The split life like many others of the repressed yearner and the mechanized worker.
The self on its own spur slips along the same way, ever deeper. An interruption, a wave of inspiration from without the bubbled self stimulates and brings the slipping self back from the precipice.Back from the edge into the mundane. From the gorge onto the cliff…
is a snapshot . a momentary capture of a few wavelengths, many missed in between. the prism of emotion/feeling accentuates some and the others are lost forever. When I look back I just have a constructed truth, but its not the whole truth. A speck called me in this infinite expanse, capable of assimilating no more than a whit, only that I dream the whole of the grandness could live in the whit.
If i get the core of the light I see a path/a hole into the real truth, a la Alice in wonderland, been through, I get to know myself, myself without the worldly noise.
Be sought for
not feigned by beg instead
Command the charge
not for forced on, scampered
Dither, owned askance
not belonged herewith
Enduringly be cherished
not tied entwined
Fastened to belief
no shadows hanging
Ground steadfast pier,
stride afoot from
The ‘rightful’ thing to do
I m aware
of choices on spur,
for duress’ sake
A retreat from ‘truth’
to seek shelter under
The truth that I see
The understanding is fleeting
transient feelings pushing it to heights
so big that it challenges reality
I relent and flow onto
further with the truth of the moment
the ‘rightful’ far left behind
for the gust of the whim is strong
the truth of the moment
dwarfs the rule, the exception
the rightful, and its ties
the moment, the life
owned by now,
years of the past
surmised by a moment
of a prick precipice
– penance to severance
pain a sign of decay, gives way to the new a fresh beginning. At times, though, the scars do not go away
listening to Nee Nenaindal while I write this. I do not understand the words but it sets a reflective mood.
“My major hobby is teasing people who take themselves and the quality of their knowledge too seriously and those who don’t have the guts to sometimes say: ‘I don’t know….’” -Nassim Nicholas Taleb
We’re born into an illusion. Grow up to live in and create perceptions of us and the world evermore. In fact buying into and working around the illusion is the only way one can navigate through the life here. It’s the only framework available here, one gets into the game of life and has to play by the rules. Most of our life thus, is spent perfecting the game and scoring the points as the rules dictate. The only difference between being lost and having a handle to the railing is in being aware that there is an illusion. As the guard of awareness goes off, the railing vanishes and one simply falls infinitum into the deep dark hole of the myth.
Though Taleb meant the above in the context of once awe-inspiring now hated financial pundits, this ailment of believing your own myth seems all-pervasive in these times. Is the reason that the life’s illusory myth has self perpetuated to such a complex level that it is harder to keep up with the other half of the void of the myth? The balance to seek between the self, hidden and marred by role-specific perceptions and expectations; the life, in all its material manifestations and limited time; and in the and the game therein, of perfecting the rules and workarounds about it: to me, is the aim to seek in my time here. Mystics and spiritually enlightened folks, from their high pedestal of having been there, done that call others ‘ignorant’. I understand the spiritual journey to be a very personal and internal endeavour, one that is catalysed and guided by the trials and tribulation of the illusory life aforementioned. A guide should be able to nudge to on track if you go astray, but nothing can push you or bring it to you unless you respect it, seek it in earnest; and, perceive yourself to be worthy and ready for it. A seeker seeks and cannot be shown. To each his own, in this long hard journey. There is no one single highway or even a single destination. There is no formula, and probably no answers at the end. An individual evokes respect, if his is a sincere path treaded with earnestness and awareness that the absolute is a semblance.
I am a compulsive leisure seeker. I like to stop; observe and absorb. In times of rush and race, leisure is draped to look like a guilt ridden escape. But its a retreat to your own being or some new experience emanating from an unusual observation..an expedient to a creative realisation or a new awareness..
similar sentiments by a well known Welsh poet:
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
– William Henry Davies