Guilt

Guilt is a convoluted story for martyers and victims of overgrown imaginations. It’s a level of specialness and individuality too great to fully claim. It is the pitchfork at the gateless gate keeping heaven at bay.

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Thoughts on Thinking

I think I know something and know I cannot possibly. Not by thinking anyway. Knowing is something in and of itself akin to recognition.

If I think I know something I limit my knowing. Thoughts are at best like petals of a flower that form around the intrigue of knowing.

Thinking can be thought through, drawn out, turned upside down and torn apart. Thinking is learning to use words in sentences and is akin to imagination. It’s got nothing on knowing.

Free Fall

I once slipped on the peel of my imagination and hit my head on oblivion. I caught an infinitely expansive wave, the speed of light, and slid past definition.

At some point I washed up on the shore of nowhere else to be and life’s timeline rolled up like a window shade settling all accounts in a flash. I sat at home with God on top of a mountain before and after birth and death. No time had passed since I had seemed to live.

Gradually Breaking it Down

Recognize what you know and what you don’t know.

Think for yourself until you know and then throw that knowing away.

I have felt so ungrounded.  Detached from my past desires, hopes and fears.

I have expansive ideas.  I create businesses unintentionally out of thin air and lightly juggle three.

I watch the ways I define this temporary self and my angle on things.

I break down thought, judgements by looking at them over time.

I am gradually loosing my mind.  It’s a natural process of maturity to shed one’s skin once it’s served it’s purpose.   The aspects of mind which are human bound and serve no purpose but to separate and maintain illusions must dissolve in sight of such a beautiful and lovely truth.

This truth teaches love beyond conditions, freedom, wholeness and unification of the entirety of the experience by going beyond experience to understand the very nature/and beyond nature of one’s self and reality.

I got distracted, as I do.

I write to step back from thinking.  “What am I to do? “, Thinking asks.  I reverse the words and throw it back, “Do to I AM what??”  It is a choice, that’s clear.

The proof is in the pudding.  The choice and freedom to choose exists only in seeing another choice.  Choosing between vanilla and chocolate pudding is not much of a choice.  Choosing to wake up from a dream about imagining what flavor pudding you think you want to remembering the truth of one’s reality beyond this temporary dream is another thing altogether.

As I look at different aspects of myself and perspectives I feel as though I am looking at and through a fractured mirror.  Stepping back from looking at the broken pieces on the floor I remember myself with a laugh and total recognition of the situation here.  I apply words to this experiences and it seems like pure madness.   It strikes a match within me, burning.  Is it fear?  Where am I?  In my mind breaking it down.

 

 

 

Dreaming I’m thinking about something

Exploring the universe with White this morning on Labor Day.

     I keep picking up books.  What am I seeking?

I am my own best friend.

I talk to my body, heart and mind and then have this perspective.

The body is awake in the dream.  It feels everything.  The “Higher Self” feeds a story to the dream character.  The perceptual experience of the dream character is affected by the story fed to it.  At some point the dream character catches on to the plot even though It does not really understand the whole thing being that It has the memory of a goldfish.

I only think I know it, but it’s enough.

On one hand I can do nothing but pretend.  On the other I can no longer pretend not to know only my own imagination.  The broader perspective though shows I am not only this.  The dreamer within the dream within the dream * ∞ ?

Crazy dreams.  Nonsense brings me back to my senses.  Dropping it like a BROKEN RECORD & leaving it for dead.  I rise up again New like life itself born of thorns and roses.  Bleeding troopers.  Trauma through evolution that happened while I slept.

Born again and again until finally I could remember.  (I want to puke remembering the ride. )  Broken through many shells and bodies to emerge here.

Still covered in the primordial path of the right to be, just for a glimpse.  What a joke.

A drama comedy I play out like a fantasy.  A child playing cars on the edge of a cliff, surrounded by lions and lava and an asteroid is headed straight for his head and…. There is a blink of an eye and a blink of an I just before another death.

There are signs and pointers.  My feet walk the numbered steps to the gallows.  All as planned.