StevenGroves

not much to say about me

I love reading books and writing

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I bow to the holy intercourse
Of the cosmic male and female
Parents of all that is
Who are also their creation, us
And nothing too, being beyond
Far, far, far beyond such things
Gone, gone from being
Gone, gone from doing
Yet all that does be
All that be doing.

They are intwined in all things,
The great stars, nebulae and void
Ornaments of the cosmos
To the smallest particles
Which are not really particles at all
Not even waves
Nor are the waves different than the sea
Being totally empty, yet one with all else
everything that is or ever was
and always will be, unshackled from time
by the razor of non-attachment
An alchemy of completion, indistinguishable
from the emptiness

In so many patterns, in so many guises
They come together, having always been so
Two primal forces, one being, emanations without count
Two mouths speak but one word, language without limit
Their desire for one another is quenched
In unquenchability, being not a desire at all
but oneness.

It cannot be said that they do not exist
Yet neither do they exist as such
They are beyond our petty semantics and conjecture
We might as well be bacteria contemplating humanity
A half-consciousness emerging from the mud

Existence and non-existence they wear as we do clothes
Casting off both raiments to be with one another
Even duality and nonduality are adornments
Of their adoration

Yet We are their form, come into being
Worn into the grave
Doing the human thing, capable of all that is
Constraining ourselves to littleness
Belittling our holy passenger
Egocentric crusades of paranoia
constitute our lives and dreams
Like amnesiac actors, badly playing roles
As if they were who we truly are
Grudgingly yielding stage after stage
Basking in the approval of imaginary audiences
Fashioning mental puppets who tug our strings
Bending us to cower before imaginary terror
Blind to the true witness
Why do we play on such small, badly lit stages
When the entire universe is our stage?
And all light is our light?
And reality itself is our play?
What reality?

We will not find it
Until we abandon our melodramatics
And resolve to enter the temple within
Where the path to eternity starts internally
There He meets Her, and She finds Him
And both find themselves as oneself

She is the void before time, and he moves within her
With infinite speed, encountering no resistance
Not even its notion
By her grace comes all motion
And he arrives before he departs

They are like a mirror, their duality resolved
Reflecting one another longer than eternity
Greater than infinity
What is the image and what is the reflection?
They are neither, they are both: they are one
For they are not mirrors, that is a poor symbol
An imperfect cognitive marker denoting perfect mirror wisdom
In substance as well as illusion, or if wished:
not in illusion at all.

He is not different than She yet together they generate all difference
Primal duality bringing forth all other duality, triality, multiplicity, infinity
All limitless variety of phenomenon which construct our lives
Woven from a single thread appearing as two, eating its own helical tail
Weaving without and within, within, within, within
Sourced from the true spice, the unchanging absolute
Whom I look upon anew every eternal moment.
Without ego.
Even if I lie saying this right now, truth emerges from such a lie
It is true, for I am and always was beyond the simulation
As were we all, there being no we, just you and I
No you and I, just Aum
It is itness
Also is it isness.