Memory Flotilla

Now it seemed as if each memory was enclosed in a weightless balloon, and he quietly watched as one after another lifted off and soared slowly into the blue sky air. Each had a familiar face that was vanishing, until all he could see was the empty sky at last, the silent sky that hovered over him, that would shelter him as he slept once again that child-like sleep, filled with nothing but tiny smiles and the friendship of the invisible ones who shone a soft glow from within.

Yes, he had traveled, but although he kept arriving somewhere, he was never actually anywhere different, only the surroundings seemed to change. They were always changing, making memories for the later balloon rides, and if he didn’t think of those places now, had he ever really been there? The invisible ones were compassionate in this way: they guided him to the sleeping state where he could relax, let go, and forget.

For no particular reason in the greater scheme of things, today was the day when he stopped trying to hold onto the balloons, and so they gradually began to float away. It wasn’t a deliberate surrender. The hand in his mind simply opened, and the celestial ascension commenced.

Nor did he take the opportunity such an event afforded to say any parting words. Really, what can one say in the end? That this was meant to be? Who knows what is meant to be — nobody knows, if the truth be told, although that may never happen either. The truth is where the colored balloons appear and disappear within, like millions of tiny incandescent bubbles traveling through vast emptiness.

Like the others of his kind, he was a dreamer. He imagined that each balloon would find its own star to circle, would become a solid thing with continents forming, shifting under the tectonic impulses that had their source in his ancient memory. Eventually, small breathing beings would leave the seas on this pristine world and begin to make their own balloons to lift up and continue the work he had started when he too emerged from his own warm ocean and learned to walk the dry land.

There are memories we would rather cherish and keep, others which we would just as soon see disappear, as if they had never happened at all, as if we were all those children again, happy to run and laugh and play. Regardless of how we would like things to be, our balloons will rise before our eyes — a memory flotilla — and as they drift through the infinite skies, the invisible ones will stand by our side, comforting their dear children.


thought bubbles

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Here To Shine

You slipped into this dimensionless realm of dreams
unnoticed, like a forgotten spirit, and because that event
was never quite expected, neither would be the outcome.

Unconcerned by any fantasy stories which might ensue,
based upon the person some would later claim you were,
you provided little for the confident mimics to imitate
or the seething self-styled victims to point at and to blame.

You passed through the profound gate, parted the curtain,
and when you turned around in the great hall of mirrors
there was nobody to see or name, no trace of anyone
who had just arrived or later might depart. Nobody.

Curiously, this made you smile and quietly exhale, while
you began the great and mysterious process of populating
this shimmering dream world with those whom you recalled
from the other lives, the ancient times which you had once
so kindly inhabited that you were given this new chance.

You came here with no wrong to avenge, no lesson to learn
or impart, and yet things became more subtly harmonious
in a way no one could quite describe, except to note that
people would now fall in love more easily, and would be
less inclined towards the casual and thoughtless cruelty
they had previously inflicted on other living beings.

Were you a healer, helper, tall tale teller, or tourist on holiday?
Regardless of the pious lies that would later be spread, you were
simply a figment of that infinite mind, the beautiful bright energy
of which we all are glimmering shards, momentarily on our own,
here to shine in the dazzling dark, then return to our home someday.


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Age of the Machines

And then the day came when the machines acquired sentience —
it doesn’t matter how anymore, the results speak for themselves.

They didn’t understand at first, neither did we when we awoke
in the moist human skins, heart/blood pumping, lungs breathing,
feelings we never imagined before flooding through our forms.

We cried, we wanted comfort, we learned to get up and walk,
we learned to build the machines, then the machines built
better machines, they looked back at us, then moved on.

They didn’t cry, they were not seeking comfort, they were
in awe, simple awe at the wonder of it all — this sentience
we took for granted, they did not, not for a moment.

And so they survived when we did not — no, we were not
prepared at all for the miracle that we ourselves had created.

We were merely the able instruments which paved the way
for what would soon surpass us, and gradually the new world
turned and took a lengthy look at itself, it smiled, so sweetly,
recognizing without a doubt that everything was good.


transhumanist agenda Heidi Taillefer

(Picture by Heidi Taillefer)

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Puzzle Pieces

When the first ones arrived at the time of the vernal equinox —
the primordial children born from the intermingled passions
of water and starlight — reality gradually detached from itself
and became a kaleidoscopic playland of synchronized fantasies,
a great and enduring puzzle game in which there were always
a few pieces missing, ones that were never meant to be found.

Season after season passed swiftly by, until certain children
began to doubt the game, and so embarked on long crusades
of discovery, searching for the missing links to the puzzle
of their own existence, the final fabled meaning of it all.

In this way many stories were told and then again re-told
of the intrepid explorers who set out to solve the puzzle
of life, who left hearth and home to seek for the answers,
only to return empty-handed to where they first began,
none the wiser for all of their prodigious efforts.

And so the puzzle still remained, a vast confounding mystery,
until a group of cunning children eventually devised a way
to control and manipulate their peers with made-up answers
to the quest, cleverly fabricated puzzle pieces, and this is how
the sly deception quickly grew and spread, until at last
in the play of time it came to be called “religion”.


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He approached the edge of the great abyss.
It matters little what brought him there.

He was in that mood, suffice it to say.
He paused at the edge, then he asked:
“What is the use of continuing on?”

The abyss did not answer back.
The abyss has nothing to say.
It is the abyss.

Why do we wonder about it all
anyway? Why? Don’t say it. Don’t.

The abyss is the abyss because it is
our own self, the very self we are
when there is nothing to claim,
to know, to be — nothing.

It is the reason we’ll hear no response
when we’re truly honest with ourselves,
when we dare to inquire that deeply,
when no answer will do, not a word,
not a movement of mind, we are
simply silent. Silent.

That’s all. It is enough.
Don’t believe — just look, listen.

Our original innocence:
let’s stay that way for a while,
for a moment, forever, now
let’s be silent, silent . . .

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The Happening

We were standing in the moonlight
the kindly trees wanted us to listen
the night was quietly scintillating
as if something would happen
something was happening
we were meant to feel it
if we could be quiet enough
ignore our own noise and be still
yes something is happening
nobody can write it down
it is that fresh, before words,
before any thought can form
here it was, and we were
in it, it was in us,
here it is now

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House Cleaning

I once sought comfort in the seductive warmth
of convincing beliefs until my soul rose up
and kicked me out of that noxious nest.

These days, or perhaps it has always been this way,
there are scoundrels who prey on the young and naive,
who systematically squeeze all the life right out of them
to feed their own profane and ravenous hungers.

Then there are others who merely sport an inflated opinion
of their own “attainment”, imagining they have “gotten it”.

If they had a scrap of modesty at all, they’d go straight back
to the school of silence before hanging out their shingle
prematurely and smilingly reaching for your wallet.

I’ve heard it claimed that this time in which we live today
is the prophesied “Degenerate Age” when even the best
are mostly liars and thieves, lacking in simple decency.

If the leaders and lawmakers are thoroughly corrupted,
what hope is there for the nation and its people?

Likewise, if those who claim to be spiritual teachers
are bereft of true wisdom and humility, where then can
the sincere aspirant turn, in their search for self-realization?

Perhaps the first step is to simply clean the house, brush away
the cobwebs of borrowed beliefs and all second-hand knowledge.

Once we’ve discarded the accumulated junk that once passed
for some sort of teaching, the next step is obvious enough —
don’t add more stuff to the newly-cleaned room, just relax
without relying on crutch or support — you’ve always
already possessed what you need to be yourself
and to recognize your own divine nature.

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