woodwind pressing


The rattling of the train with or without brakes
As I live out the raw stuff of my life, the filling in the dosa
My life is completely without brakes, rushing headlong towards death
Great bliss overwhelms me as I think of my former life. Another city another place another time a different year, a wholly other parade of the seasons
What seemed so frustrating then and in moments since is now colored happily, not with nostalgia, but with detachment, with a realization that it like every other moment is equally passing before the sovereign and absolute Self
And I can’t help but wonder if you loved me for merely diving in – Siva/Shakti
All of life is only the poetry of the incarnation
Does the real take its guise in illusion, or vice-versa?
It’s late, and I feel that I’ve lost count at this point
All of life turns out to be about me
Not egomaniacally, but because the witness of the transparent Self.
Waiting through ages of the whispered promise and romance
To find out who I am
Liberation … be careful what you wish for!

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