EVERYTHING IS AN ILLUSION

The repeated melancholic voices are irritating. They continue despite every effort of mine. I am writing this, without knowing why. Sometimes the best way to dispense away with something is to face it. And this probably is the only way I can face it.

The guild of voices resonate and ricochet merry-less in  the stupor. The sun’s streaks through the window and the colloidal streams fail to kindle any sense of zest. The very media chosen to express my disdain lacks the  boisterous spirit of that which runs it. The fact that a thought in the head of some man or woman lies behind every doormat, duster or digits fails to provoke awe.

This I figure might be normalcy. Finally the crows don’t symbolize the nature nor do the mosquitoes seem a matter of interest. A bucket of water, is no more an apparatus for experimentation. And the only thing that can numb the quaint piquancy of a fantabolous mind are the works of another.

The fact that thoughts can be enslaved only by other thoughts, doesn’t escape me. But mere knowledge doesn’t provide indemnity. Knowledge puts the possessor  through  worse tests. Of knowingly having to give up, of carving a niche, where you happen to be the accompli , when you can see mens rea and yet keep a straight visage leads to precocity, wont or not doesn’t really matter.

Time has weathered the race as much as it has parched the Saharas and grown the Himalayas. Yet the very time is too great to perceive. Whether it is to kick the planets a few degrees so as to make the charts more pretty or to cause a comet to fall at the death of a Caesar, you cannot do it.

It menacingly trots along, it’s heart beating like the waves, origins unknown yet with treasures plenty. The Cryptic chronicler it  is, which strikes the senses and causes palpitations. I would at this stage and time in this endless memory of the universe, like to let a thought fly and in gratuitously commendable audacity I proceed so.

Lines don’t mean an end, but the beginning. The horizon is not an end, but where the earth and sky supposedly seemingly meet. Yet, that very convergence, oblique yet surprisingly tangential, is nothing more than illusion. For a knife-edge to exist you need a knife. And that knife cannot cut and create or cruelly kill without being in the same plane of existence.

And if everything lies in the same plane, then in truth their identity must purport a single origin. For without the work of a man, the edge cannot be sharpened and shortened to suit the need. And  we, another from such a plane operate and dissect our chosen subject, we stand on the edge and wonder which way to choose.

The choice is an illusion. Simply because we need them both. You cannot cut white and black and choose one. Merely because you paint a wall white, doesn’t mean black has been rejected. And if you look beyond, colours are a product of the mind, which conveniently exercises it’s supposed right.

By extending this argument(albeit hastily concluded, but never the less will be valid on further exploration), I propose everything is an illusion. And that one object quantifies itself into three.  Think carefully and you will notice the presence of this trinity(so to speak).

If everything is convened and  dissipated by one singular force, then why do we go on? What is, simply put, the “purpose of life”. As time tilts the axes and changes the seasons and trepidations are nurtured and peace squandered and revived from the ashes of fallen cities, men have grown beards, women have touched their eyebrows and children have cried louder.

Yet every time someone nears the vantage point, the vintage time delicately plays and acts. This as every one of our kind knows is “maya”. If such a force albeit not figuring in the laurels of   science gravitates the course of life. And if trinity is a conclusion, then we have the object and maya. Thus maya, is nothing more than another aspect of that final object.

Life then can be assumed to be the third. There is then a border less, connection. Where the sky and earth meet, is not the end, but the beginning, where we need to try to see, what really is this plane of existence.

What is more provocative is the  fact  this life, has supposedly thrived at a mere whim. While it seems fine to depict the object as “God”, it doesn’t seem pragmatic to make such a supreme force visceral in judgement and ambiguous is predicaments. It serves no purpose to supposedly play with dolls when you know the inside out of it.

And all this seems every more senseless, when it is you. Make this supreme creature human and he/she/it seems sadistic, crass and perverted. But by general conclusion it is not. For after all, such a creature/being/entity, isn’t going to allow me to say these things, if indeed it was as bad as deemed.

So what then is this one? Logically it seems crazy and almost unthinkable to think that you don’t know who you are. But fascinatingly that is the question we arrive at. So then, is this a question of the hand trying to find the body’s identity, only that it can’t because it doesn’t have a brain?

If so, maybe that is what life is heading towards, self-realization and actualization. Maybe we should consider the edges, the duality that naturally exists as a lock. The key being, seeing beyond the cleavage, so to speak. “But then why the hell all this?” you belligerently ask.

Maybe the hand does the work of the head, for the rest of the benefits. But imagine if all this is an illusion and everything is one, then surely what is the purpose of that one?

If I find an answer to all this, I will let you know. I was feeling bored 😛

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Ego and divinity

Upon a peaceful ocean ,
A thought did rise . 
That thought did move
Within the worlds , as a screw
Would into a wooden hollow . 

As judgements were passed , 
And prejudices concluded ,
To all but a few the truth
Eluded . Virtues and vices
Are relatives at war , 
Divided by a single wall . 
On either of that does lie
A way – somewhere , infinity
They do meet and there 
Contradictions nay exist . 
Yet till that point there does
Seem , a world at a brawl ,
Within itself always ready 
To start a fire at the scent of smoke .

Forces greater than the container
Are contained , by the sheer inept
Of those contained to recognize
A frail misnomer . The forces so contained
Do pray to the within to discover
A better lens to notice the
Venomous drops , the poison .

And once the mind does locate
Where it seems the simple twist
Of fate seems to be placed ,
It does try to frame a case
Of revolution , an air of arrogance ,
The charm of ego and deliberation.

The ego is a way to feel the abyss
And not that which we pit against those
As wise . The ego is a virtue to protect
And feel all those below earthly morality .
The ego is to break the walls of discrimination .
And that ego is a screen drawn  not to
Close love but to open the eyes of justice.

The only justice is poetic
And as each action churns a reaction ,
The world watches with concentration
And tries to balance with a fervor , a penchant
Soaked in a universal beauty ,
The song of which brings a deja vu
And belonging becomes de rigueur
For every creature .

At such a stark moment , the ego
Becomes a wall upon which you do
Stand and observe the obsessed world .
As a prophet to the mortal , the immortal
Sires the world and becomes the inner star ,
Set at a spot , showing direction ,
The venerated divine , the harbinger
To the future , the holder of the keys
To completion of an ultimatum .

With such a serene posture ,
The hand and the paper become
One . As one weaves through the other ,
That which is drawn breaks the beauty
Of stillness and the mesmerizing silence
Only to carve a beatitude beyond
The revealed rites of revered veneration –
The ode to world through perception.

And on such paper and as the hand
Becomes the mouth that disturbs the air ,
The thoughts on the ocean form
A known citation , seen within
And calm the diligent ego to mere strength .

As towers upon an unseen base ,
You do stand and watch the height
Of the sea , knowing that written
On the shore sand is temporary .
Yet that penned into memory ,
Is the message , to be visited
Again and again , in time’s rein ,
To establish the threads ,
To relight the blown fire
And rekindle the presence .

Everything is an illusion .
And so let the world be .
yet within each sketched ,
Does lie a world , the creativity
Of another illusion – reality
Mounted idealism , The final
curve to the straight column ,
The finesse of mind’s design .
And as the illusion’s illusion ,
Takes strength from its perceiver ,
The creator , it does add a tantamount
Code to the encore of the world .

Yet a while it does take
For another to conquer
The imagination and rise
The almost moribund ,
A final twitch before disappearance
And cause agitation in
The being’s bosom .

At such a moment ,
The negations seem to add up ,
All in whole and almost real
And thought aware ,
Such is the nature
That the being allows
Th virus to infect ,
If only not to let the world
Be poisoned.

And such and such is called divine
By plenty and worth a merry hail
But they do fail , they fail,
To see that it is not scarifies
And the ego’s penance ,
But that it is a discovery
To thrall the abyss by
The sheer resistance of life –
The strength of the wall
We do sit upon , the power
Of that which sits on the wall
And the stars whose lights do connect
The world by illuminating the world .

If not for anti , the ego has no existence .
If not for fear and guilt ,
The world would not be built
As it is but would have been formed
By the hands of creation –
The procreation of thoughts upon
Thoughts , the pro evolution
Of mud into bricks , of dusk
Into a dawn , memoir
Of man’s visage when he
Did see that he was free
To contemplate the way to the stars
And to carve a transient image on the shore
And letting the ocean the one to hide
That which is at the other side of sky’s brink .

The soul of life is divinity .
The beauty of movements ,
The culture of souls to choose ,
The ability to be alive .
Divinity is the way we feel ,
Divinity is the veracity .
And that truth which it represents ,
Is a means to an end .

At a solvent moment ,
The ego dissolves .
The viruses are none .
The illusions float below
And the world is a calm proposition.
Life seems to be drenched
In itself. The containers break ,
The Pandora box is overridden
As the world feels the hands’
Alacrity to be itself .

Life is life .
The world is alive .
Everything is an illusion
And we live in our perception .
Veracity and its integrity
Are the natural scales which we adhere
And as the notes of a song
Whatever pitch we breath
And ours heart’s beat
The love we feel
Will set us free .
For revolution is action
Where we reveal to ourselves
What we are , the action
Which frees us from the ordinary
And makes us to be the divinity .

Love is a essence ,
The flavour to let out the strings
And understand the world .
Love is the soul’s delight ,
For it is the fire of the fight .

As the world comes back alive
And the waves do eat the sketch
And reality is set alight ,
We do feel we belong ,
To this , that which is a metaphor
To our life , that which hides
From our sight , that we seek
For lending a meaning to life .

The joy of ego less superiority ,
The joy of divinity .
The God you are is what you will be ,
The God the world is ,
What you want it to be .
The God ultimately ,
Is the God that has to be .

Truth is not the end
But the means to an end.

 

The light shines the brightest