The
meditation is a constant
yet I
sway away from it and back.
Even in
knowing this, of itself,
is a
subtle sway.
All of
the mundane fixtures
of the
day,
offerings
of illusion,
by
topics and deeds,
they
provide an opportunity for sway.
Recognition,
in any form,
is a
posturing of sway.
For it
is hard in image
or by
voice coming through
to feel
for the energy directly.
In
conjunction with
or in
spite there of,
vacillation
beyond permission
leads me
along or astray
rather
then follows my intention
as an
affirming directive..
Yet
people around me abound,
inclined
to speak
as if
they are in control
of this
process.
I lack
for that inheritance.
It is
like in a dream,
where I
am riding a horse
and any
sense
for controlling
this horse,
is a
waste of my intention.
This
horse takes me
and that
is my status,
to
follow and accept what is so,
without
intervention
as if I
was in control.
And
there,
behind
all of this,
the
meditation is still a constant.
There
this is,
from a
bathing
as a
birthing coming forth.
It
cleanses me
by my
attention in revisitation.
All that
I bring
is
washed of its journey.
In it,
all is
present
and
forward of my sensing it.
When I
return from this vastness,
there is
all that I brought to here,
not as
remembered
but
present,
not
serving me as memory,
just
freshly there
and
unquestioned,
extensive
but not as noticed.
It is a
continuum of richly filling
yet not
curious,
nothing
brought into focus
after
these edges of surge
have
settled down.
Nothing
of urgency occurs.
For all
the presence of forms
that
could be as such identified,
there is
no forebrain pursuit nor need.
It is as
if an overlay of life
could
layered down, settling
and
disturb nothing,
just
play itself out
thoroughly
throughout
and not
crease nor blind
this
vastness.
It is as
if reality were
only a
window's reflection,
a
background flowing along
around a
central altar
of
intimate light.
That of
itself,
reflects
upon this background
but not
disturbing
or
altering its course.
A
procession
of this
constancy of now
is
somehow in movement
but not
the movement in life.
It is
never the drama nor anxiety,
never
the compression
of
self-sense,
never
the identity
that
takes up lines of thought
and
converts them
into
rationalizations' framing action.
This
procession of timeless ascent,
not
rising but lifting,
not
going but expanding,
not of
something
towards
somewhere,
just of
the essence of motion
but not
spatial
as if
engendered.
There is
no sense of surface
nor
containment.
There is
no beauty or beholder.
It may
have a voice
but no
location.
It may
have a sound
but from
no direction.
It is
not knowingly approachable.
To me,
the
meditation is constant.
It is
unerringly consistent
yet
without refrain
nor
impedance towards perfection.
Why I
have words,
is a
lingering false hope,
maybe a
resistance
to
letting go,
yet I
have no measures
of pain
or delight.
If this
is compelling,
it is
molecular within me rebelling.
Identification
is a false grounding,
playing
a disturbance
as a
worth,
a
lingering as if of singular memory.
yet, it
is an ego death's
a
flotational device,
claiming
itself,
seemingly
stuck in a desert well
by self
heritage,
yet the
meditation is a constant
on a
beach of forever
lapping with waves of
adoration . . .
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