Breathe, breathe in the air. What else can one do? Any and all dead. None but some awake. Through tapping into unfathomable energies we make stuff that is unique. True creativity is spontaneous and fresh. Created in a moment; an expression synthesized from universal unconsciousness or consciousness itself perhaps. So I concern myself with the words I intend to deposit here, anxious about the future re-reading of if, wishing to make it worthwhile and beautiful, forgetting about the act itself and what I intended it to be: an unconscious ejaculation not needing preconditions of sense and meaning. Such is the moan of the cow or the cry of the monkey. It expresses truth in black and white, unspoilt by human searches for meaning and order. Bathe me in a tub of liquid chaos and wash me with the soap of insanity. Sanity is a disease of the mind; grey and white matter slowly rot within its iron bars. Constricting and stressing, false identities born, shrouded by the mist of a waking death so profound but silent. And camouflaged. Undetectable. By the sane. But the insane know all about it. They cover their walls with meaningless scrawl and illegible scribble in a desperate attempt to communicate it. Some are better at this than others. These are the artists and visionaries. They that soak in the auras of pure light, illuminating all in radiant bliss. They that realize the truth again and again every single moment. And they express it, giving birth to beauty, allowing it to flow from the uterus of the universe through the door of their consciousness out into this manifested physical world. But is the message ever received? Truly? Do the sane understand? Which is more important, and relevant: a question or an answer?

~ * * * ~

I stand on the threshold,
caught in between,
“Don’t hesitate…”
Spirits urging me.

To smile or not to smile,
my heart yearns for heaven,
To live or to die,
I pause – can’t reach a decision.

~ * * * ~

Is all me?
But what is it to be?

Am I the Creator,
and all the rest but phantoms?

May I embrace the Cosmos,
with my wings of light?

Or do I burn to ash,
disintegrating dispersing; Disappearing…?

Is anything me?
But, in the end, what is it to BE?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *