An Aphorism

An Aphorism

Allaahu, Allaahu, Allaahu Haqq....

Your greater silence has enfolded my smaller silence, my Beloved. Allow me therefore to run murmuring to the heart of Our Presence.

An Aphorism:

These days I feel like I'm imprisoned somewhat in my days and nights and I am seeking a door into larger days and nights. I accept this as life's innocent flow.

On the problems of becoming. Sometimes I think to myself, "How else shall a long-standing problem be unsealed unless it be broken?" Somewhat, at first this may sound like an eccentric form of self-indulgence. But a human being, very much alive, without originality and imagination can be likened to a butcher with dull knives and worn-out scales.

Spring and autumn are very much alive in my heart as streams of lucid summer light dances in my awakefulness, and as winter's frozen symmetry lives in my silence. Come, my dear friends, let me share my seasons and their elements with you.

What is the self but a window which is spanned by fancy and silence? If Life is the Great, Silent, Shoreless Sea that holds together constellations of pure motions and feelings, then Beauty is indeed Life's naked Child. Love is then Beauty's Wine, Life's unfettered innocence that lives in the spontaneity of the timeless Infinite.

On selflessness. Indeed, ask the fallen embers or the dust particles in the vast desert or the stars at dawn about selflessness! Ask yourselves, dear fellow travelers, about the disappearance of that-which-is-not into That-Which-Is! Yet all this is most clearly seen on the path that leads to pointlessness, which lies between your understanding and knowledge. In short, I speak of Life Naked, Unfolded, Fulfilled.

Meanwhile, the human nebula and eager chaos that I am, and the countless things that regularly pass in his mind shall remain alive. He just eats, drinks, works, plays, sleeps, and at times covers his nudity and then lets the seasons work supposedly with blameless accuracy. For such a man, complete laws and pure order are somewhat missing, and so his thoughts are not nicely assorted, his dreams are not arranged and his visions are not registered. His days are not numbered. He is not nursed with exactness nor is he governed by rules, nor is he directed by rigid reasoning, nor is he slain and buried after his own prescribed methodology. Determination, the child of unfulfilled passion, alone is his mark in existence. This way, he sees a form of intriguing hope above the horizon. In particular, today his cup is filled and he is happy sweetly. No matter how fragile or strong, Life is deep, original, and strange.

Yes, that's how I am now in the spontaneity of the timeless Infinite.

Love,

{Dani}