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 ...

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 ...

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.