Of Dreams and Realities

There are journeys and journeys. There are a thousand fingers to point at the Moon. 

What path will one choose to just look at the Moon?

A recent discussion brought me back to the aspect of dreams and other realities. Facing again aspects or facets of knowledge, of Power. Some will chose the dreams, the visions, the game of light in the mirrors. 

For me, even if I’m not fully aware of it, it remains the final scope, Freedom. Freedom from dreams, realities, spaces, times, ideas. It’s the freedom to chose, not to be chosen. The freedom to be centered and borderless, to observe everything and anything what flows. For me it’s no longer a question of what finger to use when watching the Moon, it’s just a question of when there will be no separation between me and Infinity.  Death is the most probable answer since I know I’m not fully dedicated to the path. But I walk and I Live. I breath and I feel. So, why worry?

Dreams, especially the lucid ones, are indeed powerful. They usually left me with a taste of the unknown, a bitter-sweet taste, a longing which tears up apart the laziness of the “real life”. I take them as they come and go, some of them I write down, but in the end I watch them merely as omens and maybe tools. Of exploration. 

We all face choices, we all face crossroads. 

What will you choose? 

I have chosen. 





Silence of the shadows

Life has become a game. A game of Light and Shadows.

As there are no Shadows without a Light, there is no worry. The Shadows just reveal more from what there is, they do not hide, they just encompass what is to be seen when there is more than meets the eye.

Outlines and over lines, all becomes a dance, a flow, a swirl of momentum. Feelings undiscovered yet fill the empty space I become. A wave is flooding what remains, and yet the dissolved I remains. The I without name, without shape, a molding nothingness. There is no Dark or Light, there is the Here and Now, a fulcrum of Light and Shadows.

The joy of remembering becomes the joy of breathing. The joy of running becomes the joy of stopping. The mind is just a tool, a flute for the divine Light to sing until there is no mind left. Rays and sounds, petals of ultimate flowers become clouds devastating the realms of inner turmoil.

So, everything becomes a running, a vortex of what was, what is, what will be. And yet still, immobile, the observer is present, it just is. Without a flinch all creation flows around, even if it never could be really understood…

And then I stop. To see the blooming Life.  Every flower drops a Shadow when basked in Light.