ramble_ty22.9.16.21.53.32pzm4d5s_nb_v
O great Mystery, please let us reach and touch the changing ephemeral and make it real and eternal.
There is a nature that exists and abounds and its transcendental qualities perceived through glimpses of consciousness, kaleidoscoped patterns of memory self-referring.
This does not necessarily help in the quest for earnest self-expression and authentic grasping of the eternal, perhaps; its flighty nature reveals but hides in the same breath, perhaps.
The frustrating nearness and opaqueness reveals the fear and anxiety and angst for what it really is, perhaps: fear of validity of the mind’s own perceptions and observations.
When you can’t trust what you see, what are you?
When you can’t trust the thoughts that arise, what are you?
Are you more stable, or less?
Consider the evolutionary systems that give rise to your conscious experience as a mind, now.
Can you free yourself and allow for their existence, or deny them and proclaim a controlling selfhood, even if such a model burdens with anguish and contradiction?
Can you allow yourself the freedom and respite to rest in this moment as a tripping, nondual being—Awareness directly existing as automaticity, judgmentlessness persisting and flooding the moment with relief from prioritization?
Failure becomes impossible when existing as automaticity; a whirlpool proceeds as it does, without failure; a leaf floats as it does, without failure; the body proceeds as it does, without failure.
There can still exist that pain, there, of course,, that fear of inherent unacceptance and eternal loneliness.
What of it, though, in the face of automaticity and nonduality (where mind is body is all of nature)?
The fear and the declaration of a day’s unsuccess—can it be contradiction-free in the face of inability to control anything, ever?
Is the exhaustion of the body and mind not wholly made by all of nature?
Is rest not inherent in life’s refactoring?
The zipping around of the mind can make the grasping of transcendental Goodness so difficult—but is not the pen moving to shine those very words?
Does not the jitter and the pained sight deserve appreciation for musehood, too?
Does the assaulting blink not give rise to insight, as well?
The poetry that moves the pen so blesses with transcendental beauty, but what a curse to question the validity of love, too.
There is a fearlessness in some expression, even while temporally bound with its processing.
The magic is there is no magic.
The magic of the mind is its infinite deepness and inherent reprogrammability.
Such is easy to say while manic, though; depression emphasizes temporality’s inherentness.
What a relief to transcend the body, to have peace and purpose with the discovery and creation of art.
What a relief to be plural and not stuck with a particular form.
What a relief to rest in the shared love of others, unsought euphoric validation.
Even with the requirement of time, it is amazing what can come with the application of patience.
Even with the ‘failure’ to do what is thought to be best, consider what an amazing honor it is to even be aware of the mind in the first place.
To even be graced with being on the shore of self-awareness is so beautiful and potent, even when its flora and fauna are fuzzy from unchosen induced myopia.
The burnedness of the mind can hide, yes, but wow is the island beautiful, even when it’s stumbled upon.
The swirling notions and evolutionary systems can _always_ be higher; even trying to wade a little can grow the strength needed to craft later.