The Beheading

I don’t want the rose-colored glasses.

I want the gritty, changing landscape of your personality and face.

I want to touch your feral mind.

I don’t want the pretense of wrapping this up in a tidy package.

I don’t want shiny paper.

I don’t want the sophomoric ideals that get filed away so that it can all read like some manifesto of a life that was fantasized, but not lived.

*

I don’t want to try to make this look pretty.

*

I want my savage heart to be recognized by one who has found the end of himself, and stayed, made a home there.  One who needs nothing from me – or anyone – to know that he is ok.  One who loves himself enough to tell me – or anyone – that he needs a hug, or a friend.

I want to know someone who turns from the dazzling lights of outer “reality” to move ever-deeper through the darkest tunnels of the inner experience.

*

So please, look at me with the eyes of your knowing.

See that I am so very imperfect, in every possible way.

See that nothing can stop me from traveling in these tunnels, leaving behind the world of identity.  As unpopular as it may be, and even as the ground crumbles beneath my feet, all I can do is press on toward my own beheading.

*

We are searching because we know there is a light in these tunnels.  Even when we can’t see it, we can feel it.  Sometimes the light appears and it is so very small.  Like a tiny memory of something sweet, something that keeps you coming back for more.

Gradually, and randomly, the light becomes larger and brighter.  It fills up the entire cave of your being.  The light pours through you and out into the world, into the eyes of everyone you meet, filling your words and your deeds.  You are the light.

And as the light, you are moving and living and breathing in this body that feels so dense and so real.  You are filled with emotions governed by the body through the endocrine system.  You are full of thoughts, worries, beliefs, convictions.  Hopes, dreams, aspirations.

Something in you is telling you to continue walking.  Walk even further into the dark forest of your consciousness, into your own void of owning/controlling/knowing/being anything.

Walk.

*

My form is disintegrating as I walk.

Who is “I”?

My limbs fall off.

Who is “I”?

My head is cut off and rolling away from me.

Who is “I”?

The head tries to stay in control, staring at the scattered body parts that it once called its own.

Who is “I”?

A presence remains.  Unattached to the head, the trunk, the limbs.

It is now existing as raw energy.

It is living now as it has lived throughout the ages.

We don’t recognize it, lifetime after lifetime.

We forget:

we are it.

*

I don’t want the rose-colored glasses.

I want the beheading.

I want all-pervading consciousness to live in me, through me, as me.

Because any idea of “me” just doesn’t add up anymore.

*

 

 

 

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