In the Quiet of the Night

In the quiet of the night there can be seen moving images, ghostly in their appearance, which flitter to and fro in their evolutionary model of endearment. Reaching and grasping at what comes their way, they move with purpose and definition. Speaking, they expound upon ideas and concepts, creating thought-full patterns of experience in which the receptionist gathers unto their breast. Evoking their right to live, they create movement away from reality and embrace death. In decaying matter the stench of death becomes not unbearable but of the sweet scent of romance engaging us on into the abyss of our hopes and dreams and as we totter on the edge we experience the push of delight and call it not of our own. Assigning responsibility unto others, we become captivated within their aura of escapism and so as we relish each and every delight, each and every fantasy ever possibly imagined, we become nothing but a pillar of salt. Beckoning to the four winds we stand mute and destitute with no where to go and nothing to do but to wait for our time. Will it ever arrive?

Enraptured in our infinite compulsive behaviors we solemnly watch time pass and we endlessly repeat the cycles of life and death. What we hope for never seems to fully arrive and yet we hang on to each and every glimmer of hope which we are continuously on guard for. Perhaps today will be our day. Perhaps it will be on the morrow. Perhaps next week. Surely it will come in the next year.

As we change our clothes nothing changes and until we drop altogether the ideas which we wrap ourselves around, we will get no where but fast it is that we will get there. Where will it end? Who will be brave enough to see through the maze of ourselves and actually come face to face with our essence. Come what may no thing will save us and no thing will free us. The best that we can hope for is that we will come to see the light of the day some time.

But it is not hope that will ensure our victory, but action and inaction.

The action of moving our attention away from our reality and the inaction of not moving away from our Nature. All there is is all there is and that is nothing but what is. Not the thoughts, dreams and hopes of a reality which we create for our selves, but only what remains ever more. That basis, that foundation from which all springs forth is what we are after and no matter the ideas that we have of it, they are all wrong. We are neither the idea nor the experiencer.

We are something far, far greater and far, far lesser than any thing which is imagined. When one searches for it, it remains elusive. When one desires it, it remains beyond one's grasp. When one becomes one with it, our reality shatters with a mighty blow and resonates throughout the universe. When we arrive, there is no going back.

Who is there that would ever undertake such action?