When you think of me
I am a thought
Sometimes a feeling, that comes as a thought
Sometimes a thought, that comes as a feeling.
I am not that.
This image, created, done.
I am not the words, the names that have been learned, written, imprinted, carved.
Words that draw your image, your map of reality,
of someone’s and something’s and sometime’s
Reality
Images of you and me and the other,
It is, we are – not, not this, not that.
You might be aware of it, but even “awareness” is not what you are, what I am.
Awareness
is just another idea, a coordinate on the map of the mind, in the mindscape.
The whole lot is unknown, it remains unknown, and no study, no practice, no teaching, no science, no experience, no exploration
can ever grasp it.
There’s no coming close, no going beyond, nothing to reach.
Imagination is a great painter.
It can appear like a mystery
but it is not even a mystery.
Nothing can be revealed,
but the drawing, the painting appears in such mysterious, vivid colors.
There must be order, higher purpose,
but the order might just be the love for creating,
repetitive patterns, stories so vibrantly appearing, so real, looking like impressive sandcastles on the beach of life,
facing the ocean
to be washed away.
The order is love, life.
But “love” is not the order, love has no order, no pattern.
Life, love,
does not prefer one name, one appearance over the other.
It is rather like the ocean, between offering habitat and flooding it.
A natural force like fire, able to burn everything to ashes, and the ashes being the nurturing soil for rise, growth.
All life is appearance, transience.
Colorful names and images that seem to be real, separated, individual, apparent things, that have edges, but the image is blurring, fading.
Memory, that turns into oblivion.
The ocean swallowing, assimilating it.
Alive.