We, as humans, are phantom limbs of the universe in reverse.
The universe is filled with deep volumes of space,
space filled with what we would call emptiness, almost
distainly so, but still we are heavenly optimistic. And we are lopped off as
mass into these incidences of form. We are preoccupied with our trauma of mass occupancy and are
distant from our home base, formless and vast-feeling. We have symbols as
reductionism from our senses. We have sensibility as a lockdown logic away from formlessly
celestial. We are polarized and positional rather than presence, passing
through our formidable ways. Substance is really the phantom state, constrained and
restrained from the ever presence of the universe directly. Our bodies, range from vessels of heart to vehicles of soul. Our bodies are just tips of the cosmic ethereal metaphorical
icebergs of the physical beings that we profess. Inner melt should get us blissfully
homeward bound. For melt is for us to be in fusion with the universe directly, but
our props withstanding. As long as we occupy this physical intensity with
denseness of being, we are convoluted phantom operatives, wanting to scratch
the itch of isness, yet feeling that the physical is simplified and silly in
doing so. Go scratch that invisible itch until the aha’s come and keep
occurring.
For the aha’s will fathom beyond any of our phantom reach
as the
universe is always welcoming and so far flung,
full of waiting . . .
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