Today, I learned a great lesson from a Zen Magazine. The editorial said that, “the mind which you used to hold on isn’t your. That’s a very common quote with whom I encountered with many times, but today it became comprehensible to me. For instance, a Zen story narrated that, “the essence of your mind isn’t born, so it’ll never die…. It’s not an existence, which is perishable. It’s not an emptiness, which is a mere void…….it enjoys no pleasures and suffers no pain.”
Yes, after experiencing a weekend long meditative state that stands as a great discovery from my side, when I comfortably lost myself into the trance and realized this mind isn’t mine, it just endowed to me for a while. So it’s a complete detachment since this last attachment called “mind” got lost from me, and only thing that I have to do with it is to take care of it. Even though the mind is not mine but the caring must be drastic.
I always dote on to you throughout the samsara
Like a lonely star in the empty sky.
A leftover of memories after the annihilation of all stars
And they also bound to be converged like you and me.
After the end of all hopes
While a seagull takes a flight within the border!
Being a meteor I have to turn to the earth
And you’re my earth, only earth that I know.
sometimes I took a long straiten rout
to centrifugate through the misconceptions.
But sometimes I just ever turning to my only earth
And those sometimes are utterly timeless.
Because I don’t believe in time
while you stand behind.
Since from the last two years I’ve been getting so many invitation letters from a site called Mind Valley. Only once, I had tried to contact with them but while listening the lectures, I utterly became uninterested since the whole concepts appeared as polar opposite from me. But yesterday, I’ve once visited the page and it’s subordinate pages out of the blue. And I finally learned about the front mortal of Tantra Meditation who’s name was Psalm Isadora and who took her own life just a few months ago. I got hurt, I got hurt because a 42 years old lady still talking about the body, sex and the relevant accessories. How shame at that age when a man or woman remains imbecilic! Buddha said, they grow in size not in wisdom. I hope, she might realized the trivialities of sex or Tantra sex before she encountered with self-destruction. I wish, if finally she had realized that this body carries nothing but mind is everything. Hopefully in her next streaming consciousness would careful about the virtues of mind.
Immortality scatters sparsely likewise the wind trailer around the woods,
Sorrow-less madrigal sprawls and falls from the cobweb apparently seems suicide..
While falling down through a parachute someone thinks dead is just near far….
Or what Turing thoughts about the life, is it timeless during the sacred bites taking place…or did Gibran realize that love is truly timeless..
While our very impermanency, and our forlorn Wee-ness are they propagating their illusions throughout the parallel universe so fast…
No, no you don’t have to concern about that just tear out your concentration from your watch and let it immerse into the whole history of Time or just let swallow the whole package and permeate the rhythm of your heartbeat around the space………
In the memories of Fir Trees
And that rain-wash climbing road,
From where have vanished
Your varsity and foolish family life.
Still we listen that crowing of the pigeons
Throughout the loneliness of our beloved dead City.
Still drag us to that vibrant Veranda
Always intervenes by the firing of Stan-guns,
And wounded many a kind of Guernicas
Or else sprawl out as a junk of Dead Sea Scrolls.
Or even resembles the scattering colors of a thousand of Sonatas
Or like the sacred garden of the Sonalu Flowers
Longing for the illicit Poppies that will surely arise,
But yet through the sudden simmering whim
The poem appears as like as Water Hyacinths.
You could buried the life alive
About to be happened
For this life!
Hence for an unknown reason
I had to born thrice
For a good slice!
Being born thrice
Means encounter adolescence
Thus a notable span of time
Have been blowing away
Only to get the fruition.
What is the age?
I asked the mirror instead of clock
While a heap of manly Mona Lisa’s sorrows
Being gathered at the back stage.
But yet life still blinks as the light of toilet
Nothing couldn’t interfere her
It’ll quench fully automatically
14th March, 2017