cardboard adolescent

The mind can’t read what the eyes can’t see, so where are these things coming from before they get here? A moment arrives it is coming and going, one foot in and one foot out, we’ll never find the border-line. We’re all on this merry merry-go-round and which one of us can imagine anything else? I think therefore I am not where I am, but where I am thinking, somewhere outside of myself. Thinking around myself, in the merry merry-go-round with its ups and downs and eventual nausea.

All the mind can know is what it has seen before and it will only lead us into echoes of the past. Who lives where the mind ends? Who is asking who is asking? We call it void because the mind must fit it on the map even though no roads go there. But all roads come from there, and all roads return there. But the mind can only circle in its merry merry-go-round, and say there is a place where all will go and I know what it has been called though it has never been known. And yet, it is knowing. So speaks the mind, in its merry merry-go-round, knowing that it will keep on not knowing the knowing that cannot be known.

You may find one who knows, and your mind will say, who are you to know? And the one who knows will say, who are you not to know? Your mind will say, how do I get there? And the one who knows will say, how do you get to where you are? Your mind will say, why do I suffer? And the one who knows will say, why does your mind say that you suffer? Your mind will say, I do suffer! And the one who knows will say, do not listen to your mind. Listen to the sounds that wash around you. Listen to the muscles in your body. Listen to the silence that speaks in gentle whispers, in loving stillness, in perfect completeness. It is the reaching that pushes what you long for away.

Here we are, but where are we? We are not there, or there, we are this far from there, it has been this long since then. But where is there, and when was then? When did we get here, and are we still here? You carry the road you took on your shoulders, and I carry the road I took on mine. Shall we see if our roads intertwine? Perhaps it is not possible to carry roads, we should just leave them be. So here we are, well come my friend! The end of time feels comfortable and free. The end of space has just enough room. So it seems the end is the beginning, we must set out again. We are two travelers without baggage, without identities, without a sense of destination or direction. Take my hand and let’s go downhill, we’ll see where the landscape takes us.

The only movement is ever deeper into the present. What was a snowflake becomes a glacier, what was a glacier becomes a stream, what was a stream becomes a lake, what was a lake becomes an ocean. And what has changed? A single drop of water has become more aware of itself. A single drop of water has lost itself. A single drop of water, a single atom, a single quark, a single vibration, a single drop. A movement moving into itself. A stillness with mind dancing around it, telling stories about that which cannot be told. The stories are beautiful, the stories are obscene. The stories explode into bliss, into terror, recede into death. Who watches them go? Who chases after them? Who learns to sit still and watch?

No fear, no desire, no anger, no indifference.