I. I am the Universe

“I am the universe.. I am the universe…
your gonna be okay.”
Such enlightenment expounded in a busy downtown terminal, goes unnoticed by everything but me, goes noticed in everything in me, taking the phonetics I tried to to express in her. To exist is to suffer. The way out of suffering is the noble eightfold path. Feelings too bold, and too ignorant. I couldn’t even write it down. Searching through my Buddha nature for a connection to her, I froze, and suddenly that booming posture of the phrase above arose trying to put the mind of a scitzophrenic women at ease. Paralysed when he looks at me, knowing my unspoken connection, my attachment, my cling. Shes not all there you know. Everything is fleeting, can I save the coals from neither their burning out nor their bursting back up into flames with my constant fanning of them? Breathe in. Stretch myself out in my seating position in the least obvious of yogi posture. Looking and listening to the eyes and ears of insanity speak directly at me, incognito. What help can the fleeting offer the fleeting? I narrowing my glance, I try and resonate compassion across the gap of hallway between our benches on opposite sides and other shores. The great void. And I miss my bus in focusing in and out of meditations. Nothing is solved. The greater mystery is the reason I wanted to shout katsu! The moment I heard that man speak, as if it were the purest dharma, with a half smoked cigarette tucked behind his ear with long greasy black hair brought back into a rough looking ponytail and an even rougher goatee that carried the booze from the night before as dribble. I am not enlightened. I am running, sitting still. I noticed all the salt stains on the tiled floor, circling pebbles and forgotten coffee cups like police chalk lines. The greatest meditation comes from getting on the city bus, focusing my gaze on the holding bar and walking down the aisle. I walk uphill home feeling heavy with her suffering, or more accurately with my inevitable inability to alleviate it, let alone let her know that I acknowledged its existence. I am not enlightened, does that not nullify Amida Buddhas enlightenment? His title stands,and nothing is enlightened. All compassion is lost within the void and then refuels itself. Flowers are growing freely in hell and raging infernos scorch the pureland with its blessings. My defiance doubles when I raise another finger, when I write out my blindfulness in these frantic lines and it appears, perhaps to me only, as a realization.


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