I have released my spirit to Source,

that commands it.

Obediently I follow.

There must be no personal identity to hinder the creative act,

for if I am aware of the personality of me,

there can’t be the complete emptying to allow the spirit to circulate through the form in full freedom.

These words have become an experience not merely an idea or an imagined vision.

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The further I delve into the essence of being,

the farther I slip out of radius from they that only seek the obvious.

The farther I penetrate, the broader my perspective.

I cannot be content with the satisfaction of apparent needs;

I must look past and through.

Though I climb alone, still must I strive without hesitation, without the delays of my own insecurities.

I must not stifle my ascent with needless fears or uncertainties.

Each realization is an awakening.

It is the “Ego-I” that one must annihilate,

for this alone is the element that obstructs the flow of liberation.

No body, no circumstance, no object—it is the Ego-I, the false facsimile of justification.

Sincerity must apply to every facet of my existence.

I must think, speak, act with truth.

It is the choice.

 My ego woke me up at five o’clock in the morning, fearful that everything I have done–my music, my writing–will perish.

When the person that was me dies,

everything will die with it.

That is probable.

But the questions that I sought the answers to have been answered.

I am not within time.

I am not captive within the confines of space.

I am space.

The limitations of the mind’s clock

will no longer be.

Yes, how like sleep my life was lived.

But I awakened before death.

No longer trapped.

I lived out my individual script

and played my part until I broke free from the conditioning.

I do know what and who I am.

That was the purpose for me being here.

That is the purpose for all of us being here.

All forms dissolve.

They are expressions of Consciousness.

I am Consciousness.

That is the “I”

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STILL

In a single moment,

life ripped apart the last visage of illusion

from my mind;

tearing away the memories that I viewed through,

everything I belonged to…desperately held onto.

I have been painting a portrait of existence; 

Each brush stroke filled with the pigment of significance,

masking what was really there.

Behind the window dressing,

reality is laid  bare–

an empty space of naked seeing.

Just Being.

How does it feel?

Quiet. Vacant. Still.

The pattern again.

As never before

I feel the threat of loneliness loom

and the lure of the sensual ephemeral pleasures

that may appease the shallow fragmented self

that seeks escape to numb the self 

that clamors for truth.

Such a vacuum lingers.

Passionless. Without a country,

belonging nowhere and to nobody; 

for attachment forms strings

that pull we puppets.

Have I been asleep for 20 years or merely in a stupor?

When I probe into my inner storehouse,

there is nothing but the echo of a confused cry 

tethered within the cell of a false identity

 reverberating against the musty darkness

…then disappears.