Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Chuck Surface - Possessed by Love…

You start out not believing,
That anything so Beautiful could really exist.
She seems a fairy tale, imagined by the religious,
By the simple-minded, wounded and damaged,
In desperate need of emotional healing,
Willing to to believe in anything...

If it only alleviates their pain.

It seems incomprehensible, implausible,
To one so rational and empirically-minded,
That the experience of Heaven, within,
Is anything more than a hypnotic trance,
Born of fanatical deprivation and fantastical imagination,
Simply a psycho-physiological anomaly.

And who can blame you, given the lunacy of religion?

Then one day, oddly enough, seeking to die,
Not through physical harm, but through will alone,
You come to the wholly unexpected Experience of yourself,
As the absence of space, time, objects, and... yourself,
And yet, Alive, as.. what word could you possibly use...
Heaven; not a place, but...

The Unalloyed Ecstasy of Pure Unmanifest Existence.

And when space, time, objects, and you return,
You are left inextricably perplexed, for the rest of your life,
For in a sense, the absence of you, was You,
While in another, you were not, nor had you ever been,
For there was no time, past, future... or present,
And no space in which a you could exist or perceive.

And yet... You were.

"How can you remember an experience,
When "you" were not present?" they ask.
And you cannot explain.
And this troubles your mind,
For you are a rational, empirical man,
Having experienced, empirically, the empirically implausible.

And so you are ushered into the world of Divine Madness.

Ushered into madness even further by the fact,
Disconcerting to the mind, but Celebrated by the Heart,
That you never completely return from... Heaven,
That within your Heart (why the Heart, you wonder),
Is an Ineffably Sublime Intoxication, a touch,
Not simply of peace, happiness, and joy...

But the Orgasmic Ecstasy you knew in Heaven.

She is ever there, awaiting the return of wandering Attention,
Waiting like The Beloved for your outer fascination to end,
And for Attention to return, at last, to Her Arms;
Her Perfume, always Intoxicating, both mind and Heart,
In moments both sacred, and "profane",
Awaiting to embrace you, into Dissolution and Bliss.

Your Heart has become the Gate, the Wellspring of Heaven,
Here in the Dream of space, time, and manifestation,
The Garden of The Beloved, Her Tavern, within.
To this Heart, no questions arise, no dilemma perturbs,
No desire arises to "know", or "understand", or articulate,
For All is Fulfilled...

All is Fulfilled.

In the mind... the temple of rationality and empiricism,
There the scholars, the academics within you debate,
What was that, that happened on the day of your Death?
What is this... this... Presence, as much a part of you, now,
As your breath, your heartbeat... alive now, within you,
As the very Aliveness that You Are?

But no answers come; no answers will ever come,
Only a chaos of concepts, theories, and conjecture,
As useless as pictures of Wine and Perfume,
And... this is just as well, for the mind, poor fellow,
Is far too Intoxicated, far too Dissolute,
To make any sense of anything at all.

You start out not believing,
That anything so Beautiful could really exist.
It seems incomprehensible, implausible.
To one so rational, so empirically-minded,
And then you die, yet Live,
Returning… Possessed by Love…

But still... still... “knowing” Nothing.

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