BEING AND BECOMING

Painting Courtesy: Pinterest You touch everything; Yet you remain untouched; What is the mystery are you, O time? Some say you exist; Some say you are not; Yet you are the witness; Of every movement; What is the mystery are you, O time? You, the only witness of all desires; You, the only predator of all life longings; You, the only question; You, the only answer; What is the mystery are you, O time? What makes you so patient; To witness the cosmic play? What makes you so standstill; To witness the birth and death of all inclinations? Who is the progenitor? And who is progeny under your arms? What is the mystery are you, O time? Every shadow of life; Lives under your yoke; Each leap of heaven and hell; Is lead towards your shore; Each knows you; Yet forgets you; What is the mystery are you, O time?

What language of love, Have possessed you, O utilitarians? Language of ownership? Power of possession? Pleasures of enslavement? And enslavement of pleasures? You love life, Like a useful instrument, Only means and means only! What devices have invented you, O selfish genes? The machinery of give and take? Prospects of offer and consideration? Utility, the master principle! The master Principal! Like a saddle, riding the human's fate! Effect is thought incessantly, For cause, life is invested continuously, The world of causality, The world of commerce, Intertwined as a science,  Of self-gratification! Where is love, In the practical world of contract, O contractarians? Where is loyalty, In bond with royalty, O marketarians? What do you say, About selfless love,  O interestarians? What do you feel, About language of freedom? About bond of sacrifice? About fearless ecstasy? About madness of surrendering? Only in absence of me and you, Love blossoms, Like an aimless seed! Like a ...

Empty is mirror, Yet it reflects what is. Chit is absolute abyss, Yet it contains the existence, Like unending horizons of sky. Chit in bond with manas, Creates and witnesses, The playful dance of life. Shunyata is the absolute truth, Yet it is all of the possible worlds. Out of its voidness, World appears and disappears. Is it real or unreal? Or merely the Dream, Of all the possible dreams? If it is the case, Who is dreaming, the dreams of all? The One, the Cosmos. What if the One is also a figment of imagination? What if the world is a poetic creation? And the Poet has deployed itself, In every form of poetry? The poetry of life. What if only bhokta is bhojan? Only observer is observed? Only worshiper is worshipped? Only subject is object? All are the waves of same Ocean.

Hiding the face, For introjecting thy guilt, On the face of others. The blind faith in escape,  Driving will to move, In the circle of finite and infinite. In absence of courage to face the known, You, the trembling mind, Invent the story of heaven and hell, And postulates for good and evil. In the theatrics of performing escape, Self is veiled, In comfortable opinions.  Escape of self invites the other-self, Haunts back like a suppressed love, Its revengeful intimacy,  Sinking thy heart. Watch your shadow,  The hidden hole in your heart, Its secrets are written, In the threads of human-thoughts,  Watch your thoughts, The mystical code of samsara, The seed of phenomenon, And possibility of noumena. 

Life is what I construe  From the Lens within What is the stuff of which This Lens is made of? It is the mind inside  And the social mind outside  Both annihilate and create each-other  What is I  It is reflected in the mirror of relationship A great teacher once said What you are is visible in the face of other The mirror of self is in the mirror of society The mirror of society is in the mirror of self  You start anywhere And end up everywhere

Modern civilization is built on the atomic dust of individualism. The spectacles all around to celebrate the narcissism of individuals at the cost of immense suffering. Individual desire to use each and everything for the fulfillment of self has only resulted into a struggle of being out of nothingness. The modern idea of self is based on the inherent loss of Being, the sacrifice of the sacredness, and the value of subject is too important to pay attention to the playfulness of life blossoming in every corner of the Universe. The three narcissistic wounds of Copernicus, Darwin, and Freud have not changed the iota of human's mind, and it has remained volatile and unsecured as ever before. The undertaking of protecting and preserving ego (image) has only resulted into an unquenchable desire to deploy that image in every corner of the living space, which is well celebrated by the modern world as success. The trivialized success and its profane existence have not denuded the quest of h...