Personal writing, poetry

Receding into death

unnamedWhere does it come from,

The longing to be stronger,

Richer,

With a healthier or more beautiful spouse?

On better land?

With surer footing in the world?

 

Where does it come from,

The feeling of missing one another?

My father, my sister, my brother, my kin,

All are so far away;

I want to return home.

 

Why do we judge?

Why do we look on that which we miss

And dismiss it,

Saying, he is so vain,

She is so stupid,

mjQDUuKThey are so evil?

I am not like them, I am not like that,

I am different; I do not miss,

I do not feel.

 

At the base of existence,

There is the feeling that what I see,

Is what I am;

Only there is another aspect of existence,

And in that aspect,

What I see, I am not.

 

A different way of putting this

Is that we are placed here as individuals,

But with the felt sense that we are something much more:

That which we judge, that which we long for, that which we miss,

The all of which we are a droplet,

A speck,

A beam of light.

 

What is death but a return home to this allness?

The missing, canceled;

The judgement, incomprehensible;

The longing, self-same.

definition-body-mind-soul-spirit-minThere is nowhere to go and nothing to complain about anymore,

For the energy that we are provides its own hug,

Its own hearth.

 

Run, run from death,

Flee into life, into missing, into judgement.

Grow tall, in order that you may be cut down;

Grow bright, in order that your spirit may be vanquished;

Make something, do something, be something,

In order that you may be forgotten,

Your work wiped clean from the memory of time.

 

And yet, there is something. An imprint.

Something.

 

Why we are, we do not know.

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