This. Whatever appears to be happening.
Cuts through all ideas of being alive or having a life.
Whatever reaction, feeling, emotion, thought, sound, sensation, smell, sight or taste seems to fill this immediacy.
Fills the eternal broken shard of being to the brim. For no one.
This is apparently being alive.
This knife edge experiencing
Full of everything.
Somehow tip toeing the tightrope of emptiness.
It can appear like a description of this happening.
Like describing the sea from the sea shore
Except there is only the sea.
No shore & no-one describing.
Nothing removed from the sea.
and in the end my love. No sea.
A story-less life that is too immediate for any description but yet includes the description with the words 'storyless life'
Perhaps that’s as close as these words will get.
In loveness with what is
that has no room for a me to love what is..
Too already what is happening. Too late.
Already though. Already no one.
This cannot be shared, shown or held. Because what is looked for is looking. What is searched for is searching. What is longed for is longing. This. Exactly as it is. Whatever is happening is what is sought.
The worst joke ever. :) That it was the seeking you were seeking.
Answer the door baby.
It’s all that is and is not and it won’t go away.