The Way Of Light
Observations of the Mind
By Sherman R. Buck
There are times when one can get hit with utter defeat, uselessness, an attitude of why bother, a futility; despondent for what? To be rescued, saved? From what, awareness? Truth? That somehow the truth should be avoided at all cost? What's deciding the cost? What's deciding the variables, the judgments in favor of avoidance?
Yet there's an all pervading stillness there too, that embraces all that pain and suffering the mind creates. All there is, is today, right here and right now that is that stillness. We confuse the stories that everyone is programmed with and who impregnate others with their dis-eases born of reason rather than awareness. The dominant forces in society seek to vaccinate others from awareness, by using thought viruses in their cultural sermons as serums.
Do you see where this is going? Circular nonsense, going around in a circle till it meets the truth of now; presence without thinking or stories. And to avoid presence, the circle begins again and again and again, crafting stories, constructing walls of words, infinite bookshelves lined with more and more books conceptualizing anything to avoid being awake and aware.
That's the sermon induced memorized meme mantras that give rise to pain and suffering. No one bothers to question the reality of pain and suffering, other than applying more fervent thinking and believing. Awareness would reveal the futility of all of these stories believed.
Avoiding story telling, fibbing, pretending, allows authentic presence rather than expression of the sword play of words that entangle one's attention in a proverbial battle of wits; nitwits.
The stillness is always there and if you can begin to focus on it amidst all the mental noise, the mental voices telling stories, then you break the spell that binds us all and begin to break free of the force field of believing the stories rather than presence of awareness.
There is a difference, but one has to give up the nipple of conformity in order to realize you are already free and the mind is but a distraction of a conceptual reality that only exists as real until you stop believing otherwise. History reveals this to be true at every turn as a new truth arises for the believing masses of sheep to let go of what they have known. But, the problem is the grasping on to what they realize each time they stop believing, only to believe all over again in that savior. And it is just like worshiping a savior, as the masses have this propensity for needing to know and it is that knowing and wanting security that is our downfall from awareness. The masses keep looking for story tellers so they can avoid the unknown
Is it no wonder there is such an addiction to thinking and attachments to material things. This is not a judgment against these, but rather an expose of the limitations of such addictions and attachments to anything but the whole truth. Any deviation from the truth imprisons one in pain and suffering that arises from the gluttonous consumption of stories.
On the shuttle bus home from work, I sat across from a mother with her young 3 year old son, who looked at me completely relaxed, open, warm, nonjudgmental, with complete acceptance, while all around me was a full bus of adults busy pining away with constant chatter or extreme focused attention on so called "smart" phones that really aren't that smart, sort of like adults to project their smarts onto machines to avoid taking responsibility for their habitual "foray" from awareness; no eye contact, no truth, no acceptance, no presence outside of reasons why.
foray (plural forays)
I find the definition for foray extraordinarily on the mark for describing what the movement of thought does, which is in creating a border where none truly exists except in one's head; ThIs AnD tHaT, mE aNd YoU, gOd AnD mE, uS aNd ThEm, RiGhT aNd WrOnG, with the odds of separation increasing as more words and phrases and beliefs are added to ensure border squrmishes, clashes, wars, and violence born of reason.
But I digress, so I'm walking home from the shuttle stop and I feel like a Stranger in a Strange Land (read the book to understand where I'm coming from). Like who are these people acting all around me, pretending to be the sum total of their beliefs rather than infinite wave expressions. Yet, I am aware of my own winking in and out from wave to particle in nanosecond intervals interrupted with vast incoming and outgoing tides of awareness that wash away the insanity thought otherwise in those nanosecond blips seeking escape from now. You really have to realize this ongoing process till it erodes your beliefs to the point that you realize you the observer are the surfer boarding the razor's edge effortlessly, because the razor's edge is infinite stillness, completeness, wholeness, silence, eternity, love as awareness unknown.
This is not going to make sense to anyone other than intuitively, so get used to journey's into the unknown with my writings, because the habitual word play needs to be shaken up for the scrabble board game of life that exists outside of one's scripted mental masturbations.
Contemplating the mind games arising via Stealth Mode feigning intelligent thought processes, ordered insanity masking as truth; judging, comparing, discerning, reacting. Wondering what's the purpose, the point, circular thoughts, circular beliefs, circular winds, circular currents of water, of movements, circular planetary movements circled by a moon circling with other planets and moons around a sun that circles and revolves around an ever evolving gravitational gyroscopic galaxy of infinite whirling dervishes, in a quantum collective oscillating endlessly in wild abandon irreverent of expectations resistant to the absolute black hole of the unknown, creation through awareness unknown.
This is a metaphor for the inner and outer as we know it or think we know, when in reality the two are one. We are the omega point that already exists outside of thinking it doesn't.
I sit here like an expectant father, (a verse from Fish), or mother waiting for the incessant birthing that mind seeks to still birth in a chain gang led pied piper style, good stepping into an abyss of darkness plagiarized by an imaginary nobody, a corporate entity singing a phantom of the opera, donning masks moving like the brooms in The Sorcerer's Apprentice.
And I sit here in utter awareness, watching the river of words flowing endlessly; thoughts clinging together like clumps of molecules, seeking to create string theories of delusional holograms.
This thinking is like the nursery rhyme row, row, row your boat, till you realize rowing is optional, which then reveals no need to row at all in the first place, because there is no boat and you are the river. If you see everything as elements, you are able to make the leap out of separation to see that it everything is elements and that's all there is, no you, no me, no them, just oneness.
It's like sitting alone in a large grocery store, offering every imaginable food to choose from and you just sit there and wonder, observing everything and yet nothing, in complete silence and stillness humming quantum dialects unknown, in completeness and wholeness.
As an observation: Belief systems are immense worthless crossword puzzles.
Mind rants and raves, craving this or that and then having consumed quite a bit of this or that, then berates some other self for wasting money or time or effort or pain and suffering on what was wanted and craved for. In observation of this realization arises the thought, I wonder will "I" ever tire of thinking, thinking in an endless charade of a Streetcar Named Desire, the whole prefabricated Broadway show playing to an empty theater of disinterested quantum mass with no particularized dissonance or fanfare.
There's this whole story going on around me in the world and my head is creating another fictitious story about life's story, the perpetual critic laughing like hyenas in the dark circling it's prey; but it's just an endless circle mantra repeating itself, an endless charade of self-defense, creating a house of cards that houses nothing but the stories of who, what, where, when, why, and how the truth of life should be; nothing but the empty words born of reason.
And there's the walking on an endless journey in silence, with fluid creative movements towards a delicate harmony of chaos, like a galaxy walking on stilts in a gravitational stasis chamber masked as a human being.
Mirror, mirror on the wall...