I am an in-breath,
as a temporal hammock to my soul.
I have a stall-point embrace,
sensed as thoughtless.
but deeply meaningful,
from where within,
that conclusions complete themselves,
yet without judgment or positions taken.
serenity dangling its feet
in the stream of thought production.
wizardry passing as mindfulness.
each cell of being in its own hum.
how this is so,
knew all along,
but didn't bother to tell me.
for knowing, I now realize,
is a bother to being . . .
a simple life
a simple life
is filled with in-depth feeling-elementals,
as dimensional acoustics
that don't have behavioral act-outs
but simply bloom within.
the carriage is, as a presence,
buoyant as a worth more than gravity,
a scent for existence,
beyond sensory range.
a simple life
that over-demonstrates the subtly of inner richness
by un-clutteredness and elemental assessment.
where tech is not serving as a cause towards ease.
where the rituals of existence
presents less props and more immediacy of nearness.
there is an intimacy
without the vacancy of longings,
presence, less of rituals, and more of embodiment.
where nuance offers scents for the privacy of embrace.
where task is not of a burdensome nature
but offers kindly simple expressions of depth.
a simple life
has a quality of embrace to the in-breath,
where the intimate world of surround
is less of objectified and more of absorbed.
where this intimacy has the secrets of self-disclosure
that bleed within and intimately breathe
as one's inner conversational life,
rather than announce to reveal as if to declare.
a simple life
is under the radar of action-speak displayed to others
yet weaving a garment of life,
as the livingness of its warmth as worn . . .
when itch and scratch dance
I watch them from a distance
I've the dance floor feel
I so want to leave the surface of recognition,
the high contrasts of awakening and embarking.
I want no registry of orientation,
nothing of an external nature as guidance.
I want an internal medium of intimate nextness,
nothing identifiable as sensory persuasion,
not even a notion of separate from,
meeting up with.
just fluidity out of a continuance,
no labor of thought spent on identifying,
nothing of a comparative nature searching for,
a level of integrity
that has no moving parts addressed,
a senseless soothe,
a freedom from frame,
an unending exactitude
without means or measure,
no thought as composition,
just a sense of streaming
without content approval,
nothing with surface or texture,
no-mind of imposition,
just the weightlessness of all souls united,
the myth of embodiment ended,
the sense of need, satiation, creed or story
vanished as parameters of the feel for being,
eventually no distance or time
as reference-ables for mention,
even where worth has lost its dimensional value,
maybe not even a there.
but surely a 'be',
that has no audience sense,
no perspectives of reflection,
where even 'is' goes on timelessly,
where everything has, does and will
adventure into everything else,
not as journey, or audience or inquiry,
but as isness,
in and of its presence
unto its all
there that has no there,
a where that has no occupancy,
a 'be' that has no identity,
on the cutting edge of timelessness,
without any space needed for occupancy,
no memory as for wings,
no mind as for the shadowing of self,
no spirit
as if appropriately dressed for being,
just oneness beyond the expression of is . . .
that which defies is
the handicap of having a meaningful life,
popularity as its own soft prison,
truth attempting to be word worthy,
conclusions living the life of still photos,
the unapproachable that lives in plain sight,
experience is as only audience perspective,
habits that eventually have a wallpaper existence,
eternal as the death of this moment unrecognized,
all of the senses colluding towards one storyline,
the brain having a private life that mirrors can't see,
we, coming to our senses, as they don't come to us,
public concern, having the lifespan of a raindrop falling,
the planet's primary job as ass-wipe for humans,
knowing as if all humans have it, making it's not a disease,
that agreement has the shortest lifespan and the least depth,
that we have come to the business of living for profit,
knowing that future is quite privately laughing,
but never tells why.
that what's undeniable
is our ability to pause for thought,
that motion is just the wardrobe that context wears,
we, all have brains that loiter as if unpaid servants,
how new ideas come to have the life of novelty,
respect is just another name for apprehension as fear,
what we find challenging is what a mirror reflects,
give me liberty and I'll have to find something to do.
a shared unconscious is as close as we can all get,
and that optimism is innocence, birthing itself successfully.
that which defies
never lives in conclusion's shadow,
has deep truth stalking it, ongoingly,
has heart beyond what the narrative can capture,
is forever learning how to emotion-speak beyond mind,
and never poses with surface
or stands with meaning as an elder guide . . .
your heart is oneness
with time, all souls go through you
by your touch with heart
I'm bleeding my juicy preach.
I cut myself thinking
and now pooling in thoughts.
meaningful is such a crime of the mind.
not so much by content
but surely by method.
thought has so much self-relevancy,
as if a one-way conversation going forward.
reality seems like a staged puppet show.
where thought writes all the lines
and feel has limited stage presence.
what if all of behavior,
for one day,
was based on feel, no talk?
just actions based on feel,
that might stop the bleeding . . .
you are a stranger to my beliefs.
my knowing takes the initiative.
but even in mental agreement,
I am professing being a foreigner to myself.
I have to give up my projection.
I have to settle into the feel of me.
I have to be in residence
of that which does not mentally ever prove
to be of the river,
that does not know of its source,
but ever flows in the presence of now.
I may go underground
or ocean bound
or evaporate on the way.
mind wanted map, land, ownership,
but can't know or own the fluid of me.
why am I separate from you,
as if we meet in this way?
we share the same space within me,
but I am the last to know
by my methods of self.
I seem to play a game
that has rules and makes rulings.
naively unaware of that which makes for rules.
always to be a mindset away from being myself.
we are the living isness
but articulate as the blessedness of separate.
I do not need to be
the rain crashing into the waterways of living.
love is the far-side of viscosity's mystery presenting.
my know is all hands in the swim of it.
my ultimate brain usage
is the pooling of me
into the ocean of oneness.
but my knowing
is just floating belief as debris.
liquify is living into the oneness,
as mindfulness becomes fluid.
knowing is evaporative to the transcendent.
to be of the river
that does not know of its source,
but ever flows in this,
the presence of now . . .
I'm floating on a loan of existence for now.
for right now,
I'm not on a pay as you go plan.
yes, I have a work visa,
but today is not a work day,
and so I am puttering at awareness
and as contemplative as
coffee can imagine me to be.
I am asking my leisure self,
what was I up to
that I attention-span missed.
they want to tell me about what-could-have-beens.
but I'm asking about what joys occurred,
that I blatantly played through,
though unaware.
my interest is not so much as memories referred to,
but more of simple pleasures,
that I can revisit by a feeling means.
yes, I was there for that.
and now I can take that in,
in an uncluttered sense of delight.
this is where
the float part of acknowledgment comes from.
using those appreciations as paddles
in my current stream of thought,
that gets me from a right here
to a next there,
in a somewhat timely revelation manner.
you might say,
feelings that dress up as thoughts
and move through me, ever so slowly,
that I have side glances of wonderment at,
as if feelings of lightheartedness,
that surprisingly affect my sense of self-gravity,
as if a current immediate balancing influence
in my life.
so if angels are weightless in their travels,
and I have these moments of preciousness.
per chance that we meet,
as for a now,
and surprise myself,
that I have no questions to ask
but am honestly there
just to revel in this trance
as if, to ongoingly,
consciously, self sustain . . .
to be at the level of existence,
that can't be confirmed but buoyantly is.
where there is the reach
that expects for, a forthcoming grasp,
but that lives, unannounced in the transition.
where there is the sensory of a hug, bearing import,
that comes into the presence
of a full awareness embrace.
the afterthought of a handshake,
now leaves the impactful residue
of an empathic intake.
when a look meets a looking back,
that leads to a spontaneous ignition
of shared presence
in an unanticipated emotional kindling.
when what was in the harbor of self
as secured seclusion as the unsaid,
heads out to the open seas for to say.
when the amount of days
that get mentally calculated and counted,
gets lost in one's perception
to an emotional estimate measuring dumb-down tonnage.
where one goes
when sensing being is lost
and uses feelings for their eyes,
as an emotional sense of direction.
when one's habits of routine, ritual, and order,
reluctantly experiences open undefined spaces.
when high experiences have now become posterized
as memory renditions on inner vision's monotonous displays.
when self-touch
becomes more of the awareness
of the imperative of demonstrated intention
and less of the feel-after in response.
when one is the presence of self in the moment
and sees that tasks of the day
are as a future that is not of the now.
the tapestry of subtle sensations
weave of themselves,
as the glories of self witness
as if of privated interwoven mastery . . .
death is hard if the technique of containment.
the more you have a sense of self,
the more difficult the transitional skills in use.
the more you have outgoing is your life,
the easier the transition is into the etheric.
self is a technique for holding onto,
as represented by the physical in metaphor.
all self skills towards selfishness hinder departure.
it is sluggish and feels very terminal,
whereby if one is of a giving presence in life,
the transition is assisted by these internal skills
that have been indirectly practiced
for passage into a subtler plane.
the less that the mind is the holder of self
and is more of a resonator of being as life,
the easier the non-material transition can be.
the more self-less the self,
the less struggle to leave this physical plane is.
if you live as the collective of the beings around you,
that is ever the practice of being unto the other side,
where the relevance of physical is nonexistent
to the state of consciousness post-physical death.
some beings leave their body before they die in this way.
others struggle and linger with body as self,
not having practiced the transition in any form.
un-objectified love is the essence of the practice.
that is loving without objects of intention.
it is essentially inside of caring,
concern, compassion, and empathy,
and to a further degree,
in rapport, accord, insight, and intimacy.
experience in that way is as a buoyancy
rather than a grounding audience perspective.
this becomes more evident to observers
in the transition of experiencing other's death passage.
the clarity is enhanced by the feel present
rather than the cognitive stance taken.
physical death is leaving the world of nouns,
as all of the noun techniques we have
are reality addressed.
for the emotional passage as verbs,
in all of the drawnness felt
there is movement of heartfelt-ness
and that becomes the sense of transition.
in that way, physical death is then an expansive transition.
our style of reality life experience,
transition is not prepared for,
except by those who have practiced un-objectified love.
they sense of themselves a before, a during and a thereafter
without the intrusion of mental equivalency as occupancy.
we would all want birth and death to be so assisted.
but, for most of us, for now,
death is at the forefront of our resistance,
while birth has been a recovery there from.
while we are back and forth with lifetimes of transitions,
few are the wiser for it.
all of this is a method that we live by
is removed from oneness process.
oneness does not dress rehearse in the human dilemma,
yet it is present in all of us
as we are currently so ill-defined.
however impressive the physical is,
to live as an embodied being,
our current methods of involvement are highly distractive.
yet we are compelled to journey onward as if inward,
until death is a just phase
and livingness need not take any form,
to be the manifest of our being . . .
