We are all in a trance of cognition,
rewarded with answers and conclusions
that, like fresh cut flowers,
look great initially
but are dying as we receive them
because they are cut off from life.
We are duped into a false notion in our minds
because we are in rapture with the symbols
and loose sight of the ongoing livingness lost.
Our minds are enrolled in a gift giving process
in which all the gifts are dead on arrival
dead of their natural life
but alive in our minds
because of the symbology we assign.
Every time we capture as audience,
something we claim as special,
we are taking a timeout
to freeze frame and store
that which has lost the momentum
for its livingness to appease us
within our storied account.
We don’t levitate
but believe in taking the cognitive stairs,
and every step is a loaded freeze frame
of effort towards some stated goal.
Drawnness has a lightness of being
while determined-and-directed carries
an excess along with the process itself.
We make a bucket list into a weight belt
and then travel the upstream of accomplishment
to get there
as if stories merit any other moment in time
but in the illusion of now.
Reality is then the coma at hand
as in a case of a limited consciousness,
a stupor of intelligence
getting no evolutionary advancement
as benefit but only as oblivion
of placative memories to dwell upon in passing.
Stress itself is a form
of potentially dysfunctional Chi Kung.
Loving is a form of creative stress
as stress is a mediumship of integral livingness.
Reality as we have at it,
is a cognitive virus
where coping is like tilling the fields
of our cellular life.
Every moment presents living and dying
in support of our being.
Aging is just a presumptive tally line.
We want quantum passage
beyond the metaphor of time and space,
beyond quantum field differentiation
in the subtlest of ways.
We want oneness
beyond the handicap of mindfulness,
language, mass representation
or even spiritual enterprise,
just the universe without the time bind,
or the space occupancy,
or the consciousness of curiosity
as if we, in the bleachers,
comment about the field in play.
I go into emptiness as a meaning
that I last grasp before none,
I leave my crayons of coloration,
my inquisitive inquisitional mind,
my emotional buoyancy of being,
my method for story and account,
my senses as Clydesdales of awareness,
and only breathe in beyond the physical,
going forth undifferentiated from all else,
giving up the entitlement of know,
just to play,
to joyously play,
vastly into the be . . .