a daylight dream

  It might sound harsh, but there is much clarity in being away from it all. The more one mingles and dissolves the rays of heartfulness against the mixed signals of untrusted intentions, the senses get clouded by all the diffracting temporariness in it all. My heart, I can see, has become ailed. The dent which is always ready and susceptible to being questioned by the ego is filled with fogginess and ashy remains. I cannot see my truth. A moment with God has become quite painful from all the things I need to ask for forgiveness for: a word heard and said, an intention misguided, a sudden desire to excel, compete and better. All is sickening my soul and pinning me down to the muddiness of it all. It is why, dear heart, you love this aloneness. You love to be in that empty hall, in wordless commune with the soul. I’ve been wrong to lead you to this crowdedness, this sophistication, this impure stance. I’m sorry. I ask for forgiveness in grave heaviness. I see why you’re afraid. One hear

What has kept me ill at heart these days is the ordeal in having to find a place in terms of a clear-cut, well-intended purpose. The lines have blurred and clarity is at times forsaken and sacrificed for the stedfast momentum in which things get to be carried in time towards their completion.  I’m a little torn, and I don’t know what to do. Deep in my heart resides this desperate need to bask in the glory of original creation, tending to the heartfulness of all matter. Midst these children everyday, I often get carried away in the monotonous doing of academic work, which is too dry. I notice how fast a child’s heart holds tight to the distractions of this world when its heart is not captivated, when it’s not magnetised by a beautiful experience to look forward to. I’m not here for this dryness. It hurts so much to succeed in that— it’s been a blessing to fail in that perspective, as I’ve been failing for sometime. I’ve been judging myself for not being able to work on this kind of prog

the light on my face feels dim and subtle. my eyes want to hide, recoil in November’s solemn skies, while all listens to life in stillness, receiving death, receiving the brokenness of slowly fading into nothingness. it is the first autumn to truly fathom what death truly    is deep in soulful lights. to receive the glory of non-doing, of resting, of nothingness— the  gift  in this, the brokenness, the poverty, the ample need. in time, spring. but now, it is this unknowing death. this forgetfulness. this humble fading soulfulness. it is okay. it is receiving.  still, all I see is You, and all I see here is my heart melting into yours, not knowing where to go. here I learn  being , as it is, as it always was.

  Upon hearing these words from you, a knowing settled in my bones and configured my heart to have faith that you’ve felt it too— a love in wordless silence. A prayer in sacred presence. Perhaps the last time you saw me and shattered under the weight of this divine love, it melted your skin away. And you know death, my dear. The death of time and space as you cross the gateways of divine love. We leave it all here. We’ll see what it’s like— when my eyes take the shape of yours. When we melt into one another into an eternal embrace— wordless, silent, cosmic. In some far off place, an explosion, a divine spark entrancing an entire collective into its beginning. We’ll see what it’s like— to become one. I don’t know what else comes after. At this point, there is no need to leave now . I’ll never feel at home here. But your eyes, a mirror. Your hands, a portal. I see duality in place. I can choose Him and all else— it’s all the same through Love.  Would you endure the silent deep oceans of

How elusive it is to get lost in between the dual worlds— truth and its shadow. When one truly embodies the sweetness of intentions of doing, remembers it awhile, impalpably forgotten midst the enchanting rays of daylight. I love gazing at my shadow in remembrance. Sometimes it is those shadows that cloud the wholeness of this world, of this existence, of this love. Oh, it not I. It was never— would I remember this more than not, dear heart?  Too, I adore the sweetness of sunshine in my eyes. Yet, it is sweeter in the reclusive dark. When the world fades, the source shines in a shimmer divine. The boundaries melt, nothingness a love longing to be felt.  Gratitude encompasses a droplet of truth— forget yourself. Become carried in ease.

Sometimes I forget and get lost in the maze leading me up to endless skies. In between the doing, surrender is sweet, it is overwhelmingly relentless, often addictive, that one feels that something is wrong if a peek to the ground is forsaken. In those days, I forget what I’m here for. I forget the purpose of the strife. It all becomes quite confusing to understand— how did I get here? How was all this enabled into happening so swiftly? It’s where I’m at. I look at the long list of commitments surrender has carried me towards so gently. I am even sure that they could be kissed into existence with ease, but with humanness, I often panic at the brink of each evening wondering how it could happen. I then feel really afraid. I want to escape. I wonder, too, dear one, how I got myself surrendering my fears of togetherness. The shame that runs down the vines of my lifeline, all the fragile notions to be undone, all the big stones to be lifted in ease. Now that I look in hindsight, that was a

November is one of those solemn times of the year, when the year ages and monotony settles in. The intentions sowed in autumn crystallise into a hidden knowing, its only requirement is to be habituated, which is always the most difficult part, especially for a soul that revels in the glory of new beginnings and diverging dreams. The trees have become barren and the sun does not shine as luxuriously as it did. It’s warm and subtle, but it smells different now. It’s this fragrance that makes me miss the exhilarated motions of spring. The passing of months have become truly ritualistic now. Every month teaches me something new, and perhaps I’ve learned shortly more about my attachments to this world. It’s easier to accept my mistakes and not being adept at most of my doings, but God, I find myself really clumsy in most processes that involve ordinariness. Once I’m acquainted by new dreams and imaginings, magical occurrences that touch the brink of unknowns— this is where I feel most grate