The Walk Back Home

The ego does not necessarily thrive on fear, but many would begin to believe that in the modern world, the ego cannot exist without fear. The ego is a body-based survival mechanism that only exists to prepare, to ensure the further survival of the entity in its control. The main issue for many is that the entity is not always in control of the ego, but the other way around. In this case, its actions and observations are made through fear in a need for vigilant self-preservation. When the ego controls the mind and body, people become narcissistic, afraid, paranoid, and selfish. When the mind controls the ego, people are generous, compassionate, and selfless. In the eternal Now, the ego nearly ceases to exist. Since there are no thoughts of the future or past in the Now, the ego simply serves as a mechanism to define the separation between the Self and the Other. For the vast majority, the ego is a device of fear and thus its existence is not pleasant. It cowers, plots, hides, an...

Grab hold the reigns! Nobody is guiding this but you. Ah, yes. The old practice of writing for the sake of seeing what (or who?) comes through. In todays ramble, I'm apparently addressing the physical nature of love. Undoubtedly, love is a force as real as electromagnetism or gravity. Love exerts its effects on the mental and emotional levels without question, but few of us ponder the impact of love on the physical plane (aside from a few experiments observing how love affects the molecular structure of water ). Love is a force of reparation, of order and unity, as confirmed by these experiments. Love, a timeless force, can reconstruct what entropy leaves in disarray, and though entropy does not affect the timeless Spirit, love certainly can. That said, love cannot repair a damaged spirit because the spirit cannot be damaged. What people often refer to as a damaged spirit is simply the obstruction of the natural flow of prana, qi, or love. This manifests in the form of phys...

The Microcosm Atoms compose the molecules that create cells; cells are the organic components of the microcosm. The whole, or the All, is the sentient being (in our case, a human) inconceivable in its totality to any of its inherent units. The Macrocosm In this case, the planets and solar systems function like atoms and molecules, building the Universal tissues of galaxies. These compose the organs that compsoe the whole, or the All - a hyper-sentient being that some refer to as God or the Creator Being which is entirely inconceivable in its totalty to any of its inherent units.

Why put the Truth in the news? Why not just recycle the tales tried and true? Why let the People question anything we do? It gives you something to focus on aside from you. What's it feel like to hold a nation in your palm, to keep the people feeding from your hand while you're reciting Psalms? What must a man do to keep his brother so subdued that instead of seeking out the truth they'd prefer to drop nukes? How could one become so lost that the cost of all their wrongs becomes buried in a debt so deep the banks can't play along? When treachery becomes so widespread that it's worthy of song? The tales that these bards of sung are music, just to some, others much prefer the sound of callused hands being wrung to the rhythm of a register cashed out when sets the sun. The night sky's stars are diamonds to be mined when gold's no fun. The earth is just a purchase to these men, it's just begun and as the moonlight casts us under spell,...

What I lack in output I compensate for with input, I'm a defragmented bag of wisdom. My C:/ drive is ejected my mainframe is delayed the quartz crystal displays are just a binary maze. A contraption devised to enrapture my own eyes, drowning in blue light I stutter when I feel wise. Why should we seek answers? With them, the journey dies. We're not meant to find, we're meant to keep looking for the unanswerable questions that the cosmos is cooking.

Who locked the door? Better yet, who built the lock? Who put these walls up, chiseling shelter from rock? What's a comfort zone, anyways, just a place to hide from the turning of days? A place to hold back while someone else turns the page? Why set the stage if the actors are delayed? At least were the only patrons who paid. And that's okay, because the world keeps turning no matter how many dollar bills we keep burning.

Who knows what we'll sow when the seeds choose where to grow? Water flows where raindrops go, molding mountains like playdough. Who knows when to wait if the path only delivers us late? The silence of the journey sets the world's wonders straight. Who knows where to wander when the waypoint's guide so saunters? Is the final destination a place still to be pondered? Who knows who to ask when God's stopped teaching class? The fratboys drank a tank and cask; disciples lost their past. Who knows how the Truth can hide from those afraid to die? Once we've reached the next life it becomes part of the ride.