There is no consciousness. A troubling concept without foundation. Better off without it.
There is only the world. No consciousness of it.
Daddy, where are you, he cried
I’m here now darling, daddy is here
In your nightmared room I lie beside
Your matted hair, your warm breath
Damp-scented pillow under your head
Yes, I’m here darling, sleep now
Sweet, little thing, hot with dreams,
The lure of enlightenment originates from the comfort of convergence and the belief that truth must reside in homogeneity of experience. It imprisons, yes, but a prison seems also a place of safety in this unbearable “whatness”, this realness beyond the word real. But I see us as I see diverging light rays through a crystal, never to converge again except for a remembrance of our origin, never insisting on convergence as prerequisite of experience.
Unsure at first, but after enough mornings had passed he became aware that his bedroom had been growing, all by itself. Waking into this room too many days, too many years even, to count he hadn’t been paying attention to the quiet changes that had been taking place. But every now and then, it would reoccur to him, this mystery of his room; her many corners, her shadows, the fullness of her interior, the height of her ceiling, parts of her walls he had never felt, unnoticed books in her shelves. Yes, she was becoming more of a room, more present, more central to things and he felt this urge to be there, in this room, to watch her evolution more closely.
Sooner or later, even wonder starts to fade. Subtler and subtler things get, edging their way back to the hallowed state of “normal”. For as beautiful as the state of wonderment is, contained within, there may still be an element of story-telling, of becoming, of holding, of measuring. But water is looking for water here, normal for normal, and everything else must finally go. The whole saga will finally be seen as something that never happened. The greatest insights into the immediacy and spontaneous self-sourcing nature of things, but a memory. Everything goes the way of memory, and the quiet normalcy of things remains, the undisturbed “busi-ness” of things goes on, as it was in the beginning. The final truth?…there isn’t one. Just left where you are, waiting at a traffic light, in a Toyota.
Perhaps this was the time of his life, he thought
Perhaps the place of his life also
Here on this path, their faces illumined
By a sun of a different kind
Trespassing along this stretch of path
Out of the sight of time
In moments that turned a deaf ear
To memory’s call
He sat in the kitchen, alone. Drip, drip, drip went the bathroom tap across the way. Tap, tap, tap, went the toy hammer in the room next door. He listened, silently, like a small, silver spider, crouched deep in one of the folds of the dark side of his brain.