Play into the be 2/25/17

We are all in a trance of cognition,

rewarded with answers and conclusions

that, like fresh cut flowers,

look great initially

but are dying as we receive them

because they are cut off from life.

We are duped into a false notion in our minds

because we are in rapture with the symbols

and loose sight of the ongoing livingness lost.

Our minds are enrolled in a gift giving process

in which all the gifts are dead on arrival

dead of their natural life

but alive in our minds

because of the symbology we assign.

Every time we capture as audience,

something we claim as special,

we are taking a timeout

to freeze frame and store

that which has lost the momentum

for its livingness to appease us

within our storied account.

We don’t levitate

but believe in taking the cognitive stairs,

and every step is a loaded freeze frame

of effort towards some stated goal.

Drawnness has a lightness of being

while determined-and-directed carries

an excess along with the process itself.

We make a bucket list into a weight belt

and then travel the upstream of accomplishment

to get there

as if stories merit any other moment in time

but in the illusion of now.

Reality is then the coma at hand

as in a case of a limited consciousness,

a stupor of intelligence

getting no evolutionary advancement

as benefit but only as oblivion

of placative memories to dwell upon in passing.

Stress itself is a form

of potentially dysfunctional Chi Kung.

Loving is a form of creative stress

as stress is a mediumship of integral livingness.

Reality as we have at it,

is a cognitive virus

where coping is like tilling the fields

of our cellular life.

Every moment presents living and dying

in support of our being.

Aging is just a presumptive tally line.

We want quantum passage

beyond the metaphor of time and space,

beyond materialization,

beyond quantum field differentiation

in the subtlest of ways.

We want oneness

beyond the handicap of mindfulness,

language, mass representation

or even spiritual enterprise,

just the universe without the time bind,

or the space occupancy,

or the consciousness of curiosity

as if we, in the bleachers,

comment about the field in play.

I go into emptiness as a meaning

that I last grasp before none,

I leave my crayons of coloration,

my inquisitive inquisitional mind,

my emotional buoyancy of being,

my method for story and account,

my senses as Clydesdales of awareness,

and only breathe in beyond the physical,

going forth undifferentiated from all else,

giving up the entitlement of know,

just to play,

to joyously play,

vastly into the be . . .