I’m a body of hunger: insatiable
and the loneliness skin-deep and uncomfortable
I fill myself up in search of whole
although, I’m whole
but cracked like old pottery
I’m being shown without mercy
where I am living a lie.
The attempt to escape from my own choices
to find a way out of Presence
find the ease of numbing
I’m immune to the anaesthesia
my body throbbing with life and aliveness and craving
I would eat the whole world
for nourishment
The shell that enclosed me in the amnesic cocoon has cracked
shedding shame skins
standing in acute presence with what is
- I am done saving the world.
I’m done with fighting. In a bright white ritual, the war I’ve waged against the dark is over. I’m done marching against solid constructs.
The only real wars are those we fight against the inner confines of our minds, the only curse that’s powerful enough to hold is the curse we cast on our own hearts, confining us to the dichotomy of this dry world. Picking sides, choosing our games.
The only rebellion is the one against our own forgetfulness of Source. The grief that’s most visceral is the one that grieves our disempowerment, grieving the loss of Self to matter and quantifications. The loss of love to analysis.
Our thoughts are the origin of separation.
Rebel within, against the stories within which you’ve been captured. Against the programmes rolling inside you like a broken cassette. Rebel against your doubting that you are anything but a seed of the infinite divine. Rebel against the fear of Being Light.
The war is the one within, against that which snatches you away from pure joy and a life lived with ease of being.
Give up the fight of illusion. No world needs your saving but the one within. - What you seek is also seeking you.
I remember I used to scribble these words as a child on every notebook, on hidden nooks of rooms, on poems and books, within my own self. I was a seeker then, and for long, I sought for something. Or some one, god-like or perhaps as small as a lover. Perhaps a community where blood seeps with belonging, our mothers raising granddaughters, and daughters caring for mothers and husbands loving fiercely and mornings bathing within light and song, evening dancing with the fire and praying out loud. I wanted so much to believe that what I was seeking was also calling me, was looking for me as desperate, as starved as I was looking for it.
I stopped seeking and now soften into the Longing. What I long for, I am certain, longs for me back. The home, the love and loving is longing for my presence. And an arriving: always within.
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