What is this time I live? Whispers on my ear from the beloved. Warm breath sending waves of time through my skin. Such is this place, unconcerned with durations and ends, where I listen to the stories that pass through me in the embrace of life.
If sin is a lowering of consciousness from divine, to human, to demonic, then God, in creating this universe, committed the first sin. God is the First and Last of sinners.
Perhaps this is why he is so obsessed with redemption. He needs to redeem himself through the passage of human history, where God finally gets to remember himself as God, as time, as Being-in-itself.
Maybe when we can finally forgive God for his fall, and compassionately tell him with hearts full of love, “It’s okay, God. I understand. I love you as you are,” then perhaps he will be able to forgive himself for his big fall and learn to enjoy his creation a little more, trusting his children a little, and allow us the space to become, as he becomes.
In the vastness of time I stand in this brief moment between a dream and a dream with no name, no face, no past and no future; alone and naked, giving the light of not-being to the false dreams of prophecy and the path; breathing hope to the hopeless hearts; narrating the stories of the void; burning my light over and over until nothing remains of me.
Every person has the absolute right to exist as they are. To imply that you are superior to them is to completely miss the point that “Every man and every woman is a star”.
Every person is a sovereign soul, of divine right and sacred origin. The implication that they need to adopt your customs, beliefs or appearance betrays your failure to grasp the most essential of metaphysical realizations.
Every person has the rights inherent to being human. To restrict these rights of Liberty only to a certain race, gender, nationality, age, physical condition, identity, or culture is to attempt to deny these rights as such.
So, carve, think, write, create, live, love, celebrate, mourn, look,travel, learn, and worship as you will.
Exercise the sovereignty of your being.
Understand that as these are your inalienable rights, so are they for all sentient beings everywhere.
It is in the dissolution of the orgasmic end that the boundless longing of every created being shall be satiated; and in the death of surrender of such cosmic lovers, when Thou and I cease to be, the vast solitude of the void dissolves All and becomes present in its most real plenitude.
Only the eternal Sun in the heights is beyond the existential depths of your body.
It’s a star that travels beyond all limit and all illusion.
It is the sun of my most intimate center, and being above all life and all sense, finds itself not submerged by you, beloved of mine, but reflected in each drop of you, painting his gleam on your waves, kissing your depths with his ardour, and surfing your undulations.
I, who am mortal, submerge myself in you. I, who am eternal divine, reflect myself in you.
And at the end of the day, even the sun himself wants to submerge in your womb, as ephemeral reflection of his eternal submersion when dissolving as star in the eternal ocean of the infinite void.
Al crecer te escuchaba cuando me hablabas con mis pensamientos, cuando me susurrabas en la consciencia, cuando irradiabas tu beso en mi íntimo sentir.
No importaba si tu respondías con silencio o con inspiración, el punto es que cada palabra, obra y omisión la sentía recibida; y por tanto cada palabra, obra y omisión era siempre ofrecida a ti, mi eterno acompañante, mi aliado en todo, el dios de todos mis rezos, la musa de todas mis inspiraciones, y el alero de todas mis iniquidades.
Pregnant with your light, I hold the pen with my fingers. The old mind attempts to give birth, but silence wins this battle.
And just like that, without reason or purpose the pen touches the empty paper, and together give sense and direction to the whirlwind of silence that your breath impregnated in my being.
It started precisely like this, as the small particle of ink that doesn’t amount even to a drop, that has no sense or reason but that without possible barrier initiates by subtle and delicate movement of wrist and fingers the letters and words of torrential light that give expression to that which inundates me in plenitude.
Like this, at last, comes a clamor for you. Like this materializes in the expressionless void a river of ink and word that perhaps one day might reach the vast sea. Or perhaps it will never reach, and will simply evaporate drop by drop, becoming imperceptible vapor, one with the sky, without direction or ambition until some day comes to be storm, dew, or rainbow in the sky blue.
–Koyote (translated from Spanish) 06-13-2015
I find you in the silence of the ‘I’ that is never there, and I know myself in the certainty of your undeniable presence.
I hear you in the encounter. I encounter you in the silence, when the ‘I’ no longer speaks and no longer acts.
There, in the midst of action and word without the separated self; there, in the union of the one who acts and the one who observes; there we are silence, act, and naught.
As I sat there listening to the roaring of her voice, knowing that behind me there was a jungle of life, and in front of me an ocean of time,
I could see the immensity in front of me; and behind me, the void. Everything and nothing behind me––just empty space. All that there was, was the ocean before me. All I could hear were her stories, but the stories kept coming one after the other. The images of origins and endings, beginnings and nevermores were here inside me and outside of me, and as the ocean was inside my mind, bursting it open, I couldn’t tell the difference between the ocean in me and the ocean outside.
I had no idea where I was. I had no idea what I was hearing. Voices came and went until every word, and every concept, and every memory lost any proportion and meaning. It was just sounds until no longer could I remember who or what I was, what I was hearing, what was she saying––only that reverberation that was felt through skin and spine, only the wailing until nothing else could be had, until that point of reference which is I was barely there.
Yeah. There I was, just a point of view, barely there. I, perceiving the ocean, hearing the stories. The almost I. The barely I. The uncreated. The eternal. That nothing that was not absent. That point which was ceasing to be. Unmanifested. Uncreated.
Something sat, maybe. I cannot really tell you for I did not see it sitting. There was an immensity, I believe so now. I can’t really say. For compared to what could that be an immensity?
There was a vastness that came and went that would give me moments of reprieve, when I could collect myself and think maybe enough to know myself as the teller of stories, as the thinker of thoughts, as the one who yearns for the kiss of that vastness whence I came.
I could never have enough time to consolidate this long enough before she would take me again, before my point of view would change to being a vast something that had existed from the beginning of time and will continue to exist until the end of time when the last flame in the last star goes off.