"Thou
hast to reach that fixity of mind in
which
no breeze, however strong, can waft an
earthly
thought within. Thus purified, the shrine
must
of all action, sound, or earthly light be
void;
e’en as the butterfly, o’ertaken by the frost,
falls
lifeless at the threshold—so must all earthly
thoughts
fall dead before the fane" (The Voice of
Silence, 67).
Again
with thoughts, those grounds of havoc, as roots appear chaotic: that paranoia;
that hooking fear; that insecurity; as more for others: that deep joy; that
sheer ecstasy; that soothing calm.
I
know more of seasons, as they come in increments—those moments that internal
war; to think without thoughts, as pure awareness, as to feel our souls; where
awareness is eerie, even threatening, as thoughts cause a rift. We silence
thoughts, as conscious roots, that practice a bit daunting; as thoughts would
climb, as vying for power, to appear a tad hostile.
What
becomes of us, as each journey gains by losing—this claim to normalcy? If to
shed thoughts, there’s something discarded, while something else is growing its
wings; as no longer fledglings, but these internal forces, by rites a target of
something esoteric.
One
claims as possession, this root by chains, as possessed by that very thing;
where thoughts are ridged, and/or, jagged, cutting as to disrupt silence; but
something for thought—those sharpened moments, where thoughts assist in
acquiring knowledge: to sit at composition, edged in directions, as blank as
pure awareness; or to feel energies, while to communicate inwardly, as to
presume a level of insights: so what for lose; or is it possible; this thing of ridding thoughts?
I
sought as a youngling, this thing of thoughts, as told not to think so much;
this thing repulsion, as singing in terrors, this want to attain scholarship;
or this mystic madness, to read by suggestion, as our souls retain information.
I found self speaking, at deep unawares, of this thing I had read; this journey
of thoughts, to attain to—no thoughts, while losing a piece of self.
I
gained reality, this cutting awareness, as valued but a bit haunting: to feel
self, as throbbing pulsations, while staring into dimensions. I angered
thoughts—that vie for dominion, while leading, at times, one astray. There’s something to thoughts, if be it
through training, this maze by which we extract pieces of knowledge; as knowing
self, at which to know God, at which to see humans; this terrible reality,
thrust through by presence, those chills as it grins.
We
speak of wholeness, even diagrams, where wholeness entertains each quadrant. We
are parts of circles, our thoughts, in parts, our guidance, where unsaid
thoughts require courting; albeit, by greatness, I must differ, as to presume
that thoughts are awareness; if rightly so, this deep connection, as overseers,
must be cultivated, as opposed to eradicated; as God is One, this thing of
solidifying, as opposed to exiling; so train we must, as to soar we grow, this
thing of thoughts.
