A Whisper of Silence, this Self.

I do not have a name for myself. I simply exist without tag or form, moving without comparing any one moment with any other moment.

There is just a presence in the liquid movement all around, the flowing of the fields of light, the forgetting the words and their meanings. There is just the peaceful communion with the reality that extinguishes all illusions.

Abiding in this state I forget that there was such a thing as the world. I forget the mere possibility of existence, of sound, of light, of movement, of time. I forget, living in this eternal space, that there is a word for that space. I forget the opposite of what is. I forget the distinction between self and it.

In that forgetfulness, a slight vibration surprisingly comes. It happened, and it went. I almost missed it, almost feel that it did not happen at all. Maybe it did not happen. Maybe that slight stirring comes only from within to put a tiny mark on the perfection of that infinite silence. Maybe it’s just a habit that I have accumulated over countless dreams of existence––a slight distortion of the darkness.

It comes. It goes. It’s a whisper of silence.

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In this Emptiness I Forget

I let go, slowly but surely, all ideas of God, of eternal peace, of definitive knowledge. I let go of the idea that this person will love me forever. I let go of my name. I let go of my title. I let go of the ideas that I held on to. The more I see the emptiness––the expansive presence of the ocean covering and holding the light of every star––the bigger this nothingness becomes, and the more I fail to grasp on the stream of self-important thoughts.

Ordinary life, then, becomes the dream that vanishes upon the awakening of the soul. It no longer matters what happens to me in this life, in my previous life, and in all the chains of incarnations. I am no longer concerned with what will happen to me today, tomorrow, next year, after rebirth, after that life, in other incarnations. That stream of movement and happenings, I know it to be nothing but the subtle vibrations of a mind that moves, of a life that stirs, of the fire of existence.

In this emptiness I forget myself. In this emptiness, the entire drama of existence becomes as nothing but the flickering lights, the little shadows that come across the eyes when sleeping. It no longer becomes important, that life. There no longer seems to be a difference between being human or animal, rock, tree. It no longer seems different to be word or breath, to be flower or bee. I can no longer put my finger on the difference between being mountain or poem, between being the fluttering butterfly in the heart of a young girl or being the industrious burrowing of an anthill.

There is no longer an important difference between the radiant light flowing from the heart of the sun and the lightning strike flowing through a path of emptiness, emanating, spreading light and death. There is no longer any difference between any one thing and any other thing.

I abide in this state of not being; at union with the eternal presence; at-one-ment through the floating, deeply refreshing sensation of being a simple center in the womb of the mother; growing in eternal peace and sleep. I revel in this sweet dissolution in the forgetfulness of life and death.

 

 

Raindrops on the Old Rooftop

I hear the empty spaces in between the words,
like empty spaces between cars of a moving train,
like the sound of rain that falls
on the rooftop of my grandmother’s house.
It falls.

I hear.
Drops of rain carry no meaning;
a drop no more important than any other drop.

I hear my thoughts.
They come and go.
River of movement, river of life.
I do not grab one to follow.
No importance to it all.

All concerns about this body,
of karmic debt, of life before,
are no more.

They grab nothing.
They move and carry nothing.
They appear and nothing contain.

I live, I go;
and when in between thoughts, I die.
And nothing stays.

This Impertinent Moment

This moment, it is pertinent to say, has been waiting its turn from the beginning of creation. When the sleeper stirred first and uttered a tiny vibration, unaware of it––just a single movement creating the beginning of a dream––this moment of time has been waiting, waiting to appear.

Before this moment, there were many other moments––movements, thoughts, words, actions, concerns, fights, death, life, survival, history, planetary events, starlight floating about in the heavens.

Before this moment, there is an ocean of time. After this moment, another equally infinite ocean of time.

This moment is here; empty and meaningless, surrounded by oceans of time and possibility. There will be a time when this moment is not; and whatever is here now, will not be. When this moment is over, the lights will be no more and the the path trail of light that comes into the eyes and makes its way into an unknown jungle of electrical fires inside a mass of liquid and brilliance called the brain will no longer mark a path.

This moment will then be complete, without a trail, without breath, without movement, without a present.

Just a Moment in this Room

It is pertinent to say that we are sitting in a room, surrounded by four walls. Outside the walls there’s a world of people, and lights, and darkness. We receive the subtle vibrations, the sounds that come from the world. And as we move together this world outside begins to fade away slowly, like the remnants of a dream just before beginning to awake.

Above us there is a ceiling, beyond which the vast space and the infinite stars thereof continue into an endless expanse, seemingly unmoving, serene, peaceful; giving a hint, to the eyes that see, of an ocean of infinity.

Below us there seems to be a floor of solid mass; made, of course, mostly of empty space and small particles of vibrating energy–below which lies another ocean of fire and magma.

We seem to be in a room of four walls, divided and separated above and below from oceans of rock, and mud,, and fire and space. We sit in this room where the darkness and the light, the shadows and subtle currents of air, circulate between us. We sit in this room, sensing the presence of one another–the polite quiet attention of an observer. We sit in this room in a brief moment of time, sharing a space, sharing a moment.

 

If I had to write

If I had to write that which describes you, I’d have to be able to illuminate the silence, to open the cranial plains that separate the infinite mystery from the grey thicket, and thus invent a world in which each movement of the plume would draw infinite words where each one reflects the totality of every other.

Or, perhaps, I’d simply have to touch the paper with my plume; knowing that your homonyms do not relate nor describe, but rather draw on the firmament the hidden caresses to your invisible face, without knowing perhaps, or maybe without caring, that no one could ever decipher such sketches.

Si tuviera que escribir

Si tuviera que escribir lo que te describe, tendría que poder iluminar el silencio, abrir el llano craneal que separa el infinito misterio de la maraña gris, y así inventar un mundo en el que cada movimiento de la pluma dibujara infinitas palabras que reflejaran cada una la totalidad de cada otra.

O quizás simplemente tendría que tocar el papel con mi pluma, sabiendo que tus homónimas ni relatan ni describen, sino más bien dibujan en el firmamento las caricias ocultas a tu rostro invisible sin saber quizá, o sin importarle tal vez, que nunca nadie podrá jamás descifrar tales bosquejos.

Are They Still There?

Today, there is no volcano in my view.
No people.
No path.
No city.
No hum.

Today it’s just the fog
holding and dissolving billions of worlds.
They have become more clear and solid.
They exist within me, and without.

The word showing an external reality is no longer dead.
It’s the gate keeper who is dead.

Who, then, punishes the archangels?
Or do they exist inside me in caravans?
Do they exist in my grandmother’s room,
collecting dust and gathering consciousness of little children?
Does the manticore fly?
Does the unicorn travel on solar paths?

Is the man in the cross still there,
looking at me with those eyes,
asking me if I know that I am there
nailed to the same cross,
to this creation of my mind,
unable to move and going everywhere at once?

The Sweet Fall from Grace

Do I then bring her down through the rushing of light and matter?

Or does she descend like the gentle starlight: flowing down the empty void to fill up this vessel?

Does she descend gently and loving like dew drops, like the high pitched electrical vibration?

Does she come to me as ambrosia, sweet nectar from above touching the tongue, filling the heart with the most sublime, soft, gentle love?

Is it just the mind that sits by the well in the full moon?

Is it just this silly mind of mine, divided between thought and feeling, that sees a difference between the graceful descent of the utterly tasty and satisfying dew of ambrosia and the rushing of the falling from grace?

We Create When We Read Poetry

The writer is an author creating the flow of the speech. However, when we translate a manuscripts from one language to another, we reinvent it. We create it again. Borges explained that the translator of poetry has to be a poet, because when translating poetry, we recreate. We do not just change the words from one language to another, we have to interpret it and reproduce our own version in a different language.

And even when we read the written word we must translate the meaning, and in that we reinvent it, recreate it, give it a form. We can’t help but be the co-authors of everything we read, everything we understand, and everything we perceive.