You know, there’s nothing to be done.
As Swami Satyananda once said… What did I do? I committed no sin. I was born, that is all! I did not ask for this birth.
Life is rarely what we think…
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die;
Ever drifting down the stream–
Lingering in the golden gleam–
Life, what is it but a dream?
That golden gleam, it sparkles in the light, spraying pretty diamonds in its wake.
And so we cloak ourselves in sparkles, pretending to always wear our Sunday best.
So we think.
Not enough can be our undoing just as easily as too much. Though, mistake the reflection for the object, and you’re through the looking glass.
It’s just one of the house-rules in this place.
But that’s exactly what we do.
We dance artfully (or not) through light and shade, but it’s not easy to remain detached from our projected delights and yet, live fully.
And so, the shadow puppets grow a pulse.
A dream it is, where we live in a house of cards of our own making, on house of cards street, in house of cards town, in house of cards country.
Each link in the chain relying on the other for its validation – the dream is real… right?
Waking can be painful, and slumber much preferred, all of us safe in the web of mutual experience.
Sleep my pretty, sleeeeep…
~Wizard of Oz
Tis never a singular act, though many sleep alone and struggle ever onwards. Can it be? Friends with a common goal. And the touch of one who knows the way, slow flurries of snow to pierce the veil.
Passing of the baton onwards to more than we can ever know in solo worlds, population of one.