I am the Mystery. But I don't know anything about it. As soon as I want to know more about it, I'm trying to step away from it, but I can't, because I am the Mystery. The Mystery and I are not separate, though I can feel that I am separate from it, and must remind myself that it is not the truth.
I am the Mystery, and any thought about it just deepens the Mystery. There is no mastery of this, only the end of searching.
I am the Mystery. Each apparent person writes a chapter or two of this Mystery. But the Mystery is never solved. It doesn't need to be solved. You could say it was already solved before you thought it was a Mystery.
I am the Mystery, and if I try and find the answer, it's only the mystery playing another round. There is nowhere to go. Nothing to find. Finding is already here, present and accounted for.
The Mystery is all there is. So what are you looking for? Really, you should just start laughing. It's really funny. You cant' find what's already here, can you?
There isn't really any mystery to it if you just accept the Mystery. Then it's just floating with it. Or really within it. Or really just It.
2 comments:
Very, very, very glad to see you back Maury. Terrific post. "Mystery" is as good a label as any, and perhaps one that points more straight than most. That mystery is felt, what seems like awe or...oh hell, forget it. Indescribable. But good fun trying.
Writing was accidental. Suddenly it was there. Thanks for commenting.
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