Archive for the 'Words' Category

変化の問題 もう一つの意見

Mar 18 2012 Published by under Words,日本語

ヒトの徹底的な身長と進化には確かな問題がある:
小我の導きに応じた限り、何をしようとも、乗り被せた仮面を変えることと同じだ。
じつに変わりはない。
何故ならば、本当の自分の根は今、ここに宿っている環境の全てを絡まれている。
小我の行動と希望の片寄りは環境を否定して、
小我なりの価値や楽しみを増加させることしかできない。
小我なりの悔しさや無力さを減削させることしか考えていない。
自分はどうしてこの偽善的な、人工的な、脆すぎて仕方なく小我に頼り続けている?
頼り過ぎているよ。自分の環境の性質が変わらない限り、
自分自身は変わらない。
物質的な環境や精神的な環境でも、
どれも同じ影響の重さを持っている。

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Nightwalkers

Nov 28 2011 Published by under Words

Mankind is as a band of wanderers on a quest through an endless night. Each starting from the same relative position on a circuitous path that knows no true beginning or end. A journey that continues on without pause. Each of these travelers follows a role. Donning masks symbolizing their modality of travel. These masks may be swapped, taken off, or worn one on top of another in layers of complexity too deep as to be ineffable. For nobody wanders the same path in the same manner for a lifetime.

There are those that walk a single path out of many in utter desperation, always seeking the next wayside rest, always seeking for a way to stay in the light for fear that they might be swallowed in the bottomless depths of the dark. They live in fear, they live in ignorance. It could be said that they live not at all.

There are those who make maps of their journey, with rigid clearly defined paths that they would dare not leave. They trade between themselves, ever amending the arcs of their journey. Content to know where they have been, where they will eventually go, and nothing more. Eyes barely straying from the pages of their journals and the fragile parchment on which they scribe their mandalas of servitude to the cartographization all they meet.

There are those who ride vehicles of immense speed and complexity. Always seeking to conquer distance and glorify time. Travelling so quickly and dangerously down their path that they never truly know where they have gone, or where they are headed, unceasingly redlining for the fine line that separates the light cast by their headlights and the dark of night.

There are those who have had chauffeurs hired for them, who take them everywhere. From birth they have never laid foot on the ground just below the rumbling carriages of affluence, gilded cages of stagnation.

There are those who deceive, cheat, and waylay other travellers, stealing rations, possessions, and lives. Never knowing, much less fully understanding, what it is to live of one’s own accord. Always seeking to know what it is to be free and independent, but taking  further steps into bondage with every movement they make.

There are those who seek to find a way where there is no path. Intent on getting lost in the mists where none have yet to tread. For they always seek something new in the hope that they might bring something back from their travels that no one else has yet to find. A boon for their family that might be shared for generations.

Then there are those who just walk, letting their feet lead the way. Attending to their own needs as they arise, and the needs of others as if they were their own. Watchful and aware of their every step, without the compulsion towards recursive anxiety stemming from conscientious dualism. Needing no light to guide their way, nor shielding their eyes from the lights of others, their path is known to be within them, as is the darkness, light, and ghostly shapes that arise dancing within the collaborative whole.

These few are the Nightwalkers.

They wear no masks.

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doxa incarnate

Apr 25 2011 Published by under Words

Those who have the courage to admit that they have no idea who, what, or where they are tend to be those who have a greater understanding of themselves as the world within and around them. They could be contrasted with the doxa incarnate who continuously through habit and behaviouristic conditioning delude themselves into perpetuating the artificial person.

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Another Way

Feb 01 2011 Published by under Words

What you see is not what it seems,
A spiderweb of interpenetrating dreams.
That which is there, is really that which is here,
As they who are there, are the I that is here.
For all is one and one is all
Amid the break, before the fall.

Who is he?
He is me
And you
And she.
He is all,
And he is none,
A mystery to those beneath the Sun.
Who confusedly toil, in slavery as the oil
That greases the wheels of their own demise.
No wonder their surprise
When they finally surmise,
Denying to reprise the lies.

Moon, planet, star, sky
Alone are dessiccated symbols,
Each locked within a categorical sty.
To that which they point,
As an indication of relation
Not the sentimentilization,
Is that which shall never die.

Let go,
Then watch the urge
To grasp and to merge.
Just let the mind fly by.
When the hour begins to sour,
Let time flower to the truth.
Let this melt away.
“Clutching belief will bring relief”
Is what they seem to say.
Heed not the words,
Listen to the birds,
And learn from both the Way.

Subsistence on thought is paid by soul.
In return one receives an empty bowl.
To beg, to cry, and to plead
In order to relieve the need,
To feel the phantom filling
Of that which is forever full.

Fullness of  mind is a passing state,
One that will constantly shift and abate.
Transience is the world abound,
There is no place it is not found.
Only here, right now, within,
Is there ever a ceasing of the din.
It is no it, nor a thing,
No word can define
The pinnacle of the sublime.
No conception can contain,
The feeling never felt,
The Origin of all I’s we certainly remain.

Why is it then that we pretend?
In rehearsal without beginning or end,
The Director’s chair sits empty, ominous,
Actors mistaking themselves for an imagined audience,
Denying what lies offstage sine sentiens,
Sucked headfirst into a meagre world of triviality,
Thoughtlessly accepting the falsehoods of mortality.

But here and there,
An earthly glimmer of recollection
From stars into waters of reflection,
Arising in those who dare
To question and forbear:
Ratiocination by quotation,
Frenetic mental masturbation,
Matron of the multitudinous machinations of mankind.

The true hero of our day,
In this age of consuming cliché,
Is the one who stands within,
Casts down the binding script,
Uncovers that which words are placed upon,
A message plain as dawn.
That encompasses and outstrips
Every single thought that exists
And recognizes what still persists.

All are simple dreams it seems,
Beckoning to hold the attention
Of both creator and invention.
Who can continue in another way?
Bound by fear, bound by inertia,
Bound by the past of every day.
Simply by allowing apperceiving
Of our thought-filled universes,
Shall we go beyond the notion,
The motion of devotion to self and other.
Closing the wounds of sundering isolation,
Rising over open oceans,
Penetrating all there is in sight,
With the presence of endless transforming light.

Forget the beliefs.
Forget the wishes,
Forget the words.
For the single moment
Stop searching for that which lies
In the prepackaged maldigested pittances of intellectualism
Here right now, as always,
Is the silence within silence,
Is the abscence of the absentees
Beneath the Seas of Me’s.

Understand as joy.
Give, receive, and enthuse.
Without detouring down the winding road,
Drudging to the dully mesmerizing abode,
Built by bricks of warped intention,
Fused with subconscious blinding contention,
A perpetuated system in recursive division
That lil’ ol’ place we like to call a prison.
Have you ever met the warden?
He likes to sit there every mornin’
Whistlin’ while he’s reading,
The same old paper he’s always heeding.
By noon, he’s sitting, talking,
All alone in his tiny locked-up cell
Never once having thought
Of the keys hanging about his waist,
Never once setting foot outside.

Then at night, as silence dawns,
Come the voices in his dreams:
‘Oh whatever shall we do?’ cries You.
‘Whatever shall we be?’ cries Me.
‘I’d much rather die!’ cries I.
So they howl, whimpering softly as they did long ago,
Tears streaming from their swollen eyes
Soaking wet from the evening rains,
Swept inside, without second thought,
Into the unquenchable curiosity of neoteny.

But now he laughs, amid the sighs.
For he sees the ploys
Of these poor little boys,
And strokes them lovingly as they fade away
Back into the nothingness from which they arise.

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Truth

Jan 31 2011 Published by under Words

It is not within what is called the mind, or within its contents.
It is not within what is called the body, or its contents.
It is not in what is called the soul, or its contents.
It is not within what is called the emotions, or the feelings, or the frustrations,
Or the beliefs, or the instincts, or the perceptions, or the attitudes, or the preferences,
Or the possessions, or the actions, or the memories, or the experiences, or the dreams,
Or any other thing, material or conceptual.

It is all that lies beyond those, and yet it permeates all of them.
It is that which allows all things to exist.

It is consciousness.

It is being.

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Humanity

Jan 31 2011 Published by under Words

Humanity is divinity pretending to be demonic but denying both the pretending and the divinity.

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Seeing

Jan 31 2011 Published by under Words

First we learn to see things,
Then we learn to see nothing,
Finally we see that which is both thing and nothing and recognize it as ourselves.

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Exorcismus Personae

Aug 11 2010 Published by under Words

Transfiguration through lateral creativity,
This is what we strive for:

The knowledge, wisdom, and ability to act as catalysts for the mutual transmutational balancing of all.

The real philosopher’s stone was never truly meant to be a literal stone.
If anything, it is the crystallized potential of unconditional consciousness,
Which is within us all, and is released with the sacrifice and realization of the nature of self.
In essence it could be said that the exgredient is the collective persona,
Which encompasses all malignant and twisted conceptualizations founded in unexamined belief in fictional entities.

Forgoing suchness, giving into the illusion of separation,
We kill the self in us, the self in others.
Forgoing deception, allowing all there is to be as it is,
We breathe life into all action, all experience.

In trying to kill our ego, we kill ourselves.
For death cannot be dealt to that which does not exist.
Ultimately, the self cannot remain unscathed from the ghost hunting of the ego.
To try kill one’s self brings false life to the ego.
To try kill one’s ego brings false life to the self.

It is through the apperception — not the exorcism — of these ghosts that we will uncover what we’ve been looking for.

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Heavy Snows

Apr 18 2009 Published by under Words

Crossing through the threshold of the dying past,
Fading images, alive just moments ago,
Dissolve into the clarity of eternity,
The stillness of a liminal mind.
Knowingly free to contract and expand,
The beginningless game of hide-and-seek abruptly ends,
Synchronicities of the brightest hues flood through deepest shadows,
In a crestfallen world of fantasy.

Life flows tirelessly through the waves,
Emancipating the veritas between each ray of light,
Crest and trough, Crest and trough,
Bleeding into the mechanical rocking of repetitive actions,
Borne of false necessity and utter apathy.
Singularity resolves into interdependence,
Deepens to a synergistic co-existence,
Far beyond any encapsulated unity.

An inseparability of mutually entwining transactions,
Encompassing all that is wrought from experience awaken to themselves:
These beings who seek to grasp the fires of truth with fingers bare,
Who, reaching for the flames, dread that they should lick away at fragile skin,
Long forgotten though it may be,
That the blazing lights do not char.
There is no pain.

Recoiling in a flurry of misapprehension,
Rising into the mind through the furling abyssal depths
Writhing, humming, between the shoals of intelligibility.
A cloud edges into the penumbra of the light,
Then off in the distance
Heavy snows fall from lithe needles and drift into the morning winds.

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From the Unknown

Apr 07 2009 Published by under Words

Four brands of flaming tongue burn the shells of the heartless.
Meeting, growing, eating away at the remains of entangling yarn.
Smoke writhes as gasping breaths and blaring silent screams,
Pouring out, condensing into torrential waterfalls of disease.

So many voices, all so silent.
Woven rolls of silken memories wound tight into globular masses,
Never touched by sunlight, nor the gaze of Another’s eyes.
So many ideas disintegrating within minds of sparkling radiance.
Wordless poems residing within lips that never move.
Motionless dances yearning to escape.

Just beneath the surfaces lies the source,
Emerging from the depths within,
In centre of nothing,
Circumference of everything.

Motion from stillness,
Light from darkness,
Sound from silence,
Life from inanimacy,

Consciousness from the unknown.

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