The crux of the matter 11/29/14

Understanding is a consensual form of human addiction.

It is excess baggage in the isness process. It’s part and parcel of our species entitlement claim. Thought is a self-media press-pass experience of now. Thought suffers from time’s imposition, accountability’s restraint, rational constructionism, and conclusionary common sense. Yet we exist in the holism as a presence of the presence. Experience, at best, is always riding shotgun. Even our senses are trained to phenomenalize and quantify towards relative story-ability as our experiential version. And we primarily agree as the species with ourselves. We use a questionality that never questions that of itself. Our words are only land-locked views to the oceanic nature of our feelings.

And yet we stand on cognitive shorelines, talk in navigational terms that are not truly immersed in the hologram of our heart as the ocean of life expresses itself from within us. As a species, we are living a lament. We are a form of stillborn consciousness. From our inception, there is an integrity of oneness. But we have taken to a versionary life. We subsequently disconnected from the energetics that we possess to live into visionary existence. Space-time has become the handrail that we, as humans, indulge ourselves in and claim that this is a necessary appendage of our consciousness to be. Yet here is the crux of the matter,

If the trunk of a Birchbark tree was the future canoe to the water from a rainstorm currently showering that tree, then we, could all blessedly time travel in the wisdom of an innocence having shared clarity and be. If we could take a core-slice from the stump of elder fallen tree, held close in our arms and softly stroke-strummed like that of a harp, we would have a wisdom from that melody that would take us to beyond time.

If we could sensitively put our hands into a mountain stream and know the moment that snowmelt was released as well as the kiss of the storm that originally brought those crystals to snow, then we would be more deeply be in touch with the nature’s authenticity. And lastly, if we could be aware of the shadow pen-like signature, scripting out into the deep space of the universe from the sunlight rays cast upon and then blocked by this earth, then with expansive joy, we could celebrate the evident period-like punctuation that comes with every lunar eclipse as it appears to us before our eyes. The crux of the matter is not the matter itself but us, in our symbolic Machiavellian attempts to matter . . .