I have seen many familiar faces today; some for the first time in several months.

There is a recognition there, but at the same time, I do not know them. It may seem natural to say that you know someone, but in this organism, there is nothing more unnatural.

If I see my brother, there is recognition there. But I can never say, “I know him.” There are memories, obviously. I can remember the things we have done, certain situations and events. But that is all of the past. If I say I know him, it is due to memory. And memory is of the past, and therefore, unchanging and immutable. That would mean that he has no chance of ever being different from what I remember. I effectively kill him with my mind, because I cannot see him at all. I only see my image of him; my memory of him.

This is why the living in the image, living through thought, is inherently violent. One kills the possibility of reality, of seeing what is. There is no true sight, only the remembered image.

If I meet with you, why should I rely on my memory to tell me anything? You are there, and I have no need to imagine you. After all, If I wanted to think about you or imagine you, I could have just stayed home.

Living life through thought, through the image, is living a life of violence. It is the killing of what is.

How many people have you killed today?

This energy is massive. It bursts through the room and reaches out into infinity.

There is also that pain or pressure in the upper right portion of the brain. It pulses and seems to surge forth, but it in no way obstructs the liberation that allows clarity.

As one sits in the chair, this aliveness seems to pulse, like a metronome that counts in waves, not in beats.

This is all so fascinating.

Thoughts come and go, memories come and go, but there is nothing that tries to hold them. Without attachment, the thoughts are seen as a beautiful movement of the brain. The ebb and tide of these thoughts is wonderful to behold.

If one tries to hold thoughts out of fear, the beauty of what is will always slip through the fingers. That natural functioning will be missed, and the beauty of the organism will never be seen.

Slow down and experience the body and all of the wonders within. Let go of the need to know, the need to have, and see what is there.

This energy engulfs all. It is the purest essence of life.

The pain in the head is slipping away. But still, I may not much sleep tonight.

The light pours in,
eyes will open,
but consciousness
will not
collapse
to
a
point.

Energy seeps
through the borders
of body,
dissolving the
phenomenal
into
the spiritual.

One with all things,
All things being one.

“You are the wind.
Go and breathe life
into this world.”

Be.

The eyes are set deep in the head,
constantly looking, constantly alert.
What unimaginable things, timeless things,
have they seen?

The wrinkles run deep,
carved into the face.

Each line a memory,
scarring a soul
that can’t let go.

Death,
Pain,
Age,
and Hate,
have all paid rent
in his old face.

The brow furrows as he starts to think. The energy nearly knocks me over. Why resist what is?

I cannot share what is imagined, cannot wish for what should be, but I can feel all that he projects.

“It may hurt you, you’ll fear for what you have to lose, you may cry.”

I can’t tell him it won’t hurt me, but it is true.

“Sorrow may rise, but the freedom you’ve always wanted has never left you. It is the constant companion to your pain, loss, and suffering.”

I wish that something could be done,
that one could do it for you,
but your path is of One,
as all are.
Find out for yourself.

Those lines run deep,
but timelessness
and being,
run deeper than any memory.

Walk with me,
take my hand if you wish,
but do so on your own.

Let go and
don’t look back.

I’ll always love you.

I move, and it is there.

I move, and it is there.

I move, and it is there.

Everywhere is movement, and all is being. Thoughts bubble up to the surface then disappear into itself, like countless vegetables bobbing in and out of sight as the soup gently boils.

The sensation in the brain is very sharp and biting this evening. Sometimes it hits like a frozen icepick, and it is all the proof one has that some kind of head exists.

Listening to the voice on the stereo, the mind gently vibrates as the words come and go. The words are understood, but they do not stick.

Listening happens, and the brain throbs in concert with what is heard.

It is not enough to hear. Listen!

Listen to the birds, the wind, your feet on the pavement. Be with it, in every moment, right to the very core of being. Walk until you lose yourself.