Fireworks in the Night

Sometimes, once in while, I get confused. And in my confusion I wonder why it is I write the absurdities I write and wonder what's the point, what I'm trying to say and why, and whether or not anyone "gets" it (curiously, every time I hail Satan I seem to lose a subscriber).

But then, the clouds part, and the non-event of clear space meeting clear space imparts something unstated and self-evident (and I mean this with absolute sincerity): I don't even get what I write or why. All this is just like fireworks in the night sky.

And it strikes me as true, what confuses me must confuse you, too and that in fact it's always the exact same switcheroo: we confuse the content of the creative expression of this presence we call Life with what it actually is. In our naivety, we are existential fundamentalists, literalists lacking in nuance: we think what appears is what this is and so believe words to reflect and refer to ultimacy. Yet what this actually is, is beyond comprehension, absolutely.

The bright lights of the fireworks of appearances attract our attention yet the canvas of the night sky in which appearances appear is the undefined expanse of the absence of context, which is palpably felt as untarnishable and ceaseless stillness.

With cessation of the habitual referencing of appearance to appearance for contrast and definition (or referring to the contrived authority of words) comes the revelation that what appears is ultimately absent of reference or tied to context and "knowledge" is revealed to be made-up, self-sprung, lights appearing miraculously (acausally) in an uncreated already present sky. This includes all ideas of self and not-self, all dharmas.

This night sky of being, our original face, reflection-less existence, is pristine. Absolutely nothing touches it, and you are that, and whatever we refer to as "self" and "my life" are the fireworks in that night sky and you, as the night sky, have no motive or desire for anything at all to be different than it is. You've never lit any fuse nor have ever moved and no smoke nor fire stains you.

This transcendental and impersonal equanimity (which like empty space isn't a result of anything) concomitant with what appears, relieves the anxious burden of having to transform and transmute and save oneself from their ignorance, their confusion, their suffering, their self, consciousness, existence, the world, etc - like a firework, without doing anything, these bright lights that seemed so important naturally diffuse into the silent expanse from whence it came and so I say, let the sonic booms of Doom ring, and feel intobthe space where there is no flinch nor sting.

The surprising fact is that an absolute renunciation doesn't actually require anything of you and is immediately available - therein lies the conundrum. Hands-free, without the effort of "me", is too easy. For reasons beyond knowledge, it seems we would rather see/be the fireworks which we mysteriously claim as my self and my life and my spirituality and my opinions and my judgements and my problems expressed (exploded) on that night sky.

We'll judge this that is by what we think it is, and constrain the images of ourselves to the frenetic expression of the fireworks and wonder what's the point and why it is we always feel so burned and trapped within the isolation of a fragile subjectivity - the world according to me. And I don't know if you've noticed by now, but the world according to you, fucking sucks.

But if unbeknownst to us, for reasons beyond knowledge, we are obligated to be "me" - is that really me and my doing? Or am I being done? Who or what force is lighting my fuse? Or obligating my attention and proliferating my views? What am "I"?

To be honest, it's too hard to figure out and understand. I actually don't know, I don't get it - whatever "it" is it's just like fireworks in the absolute, in the night sky, one and the same with anything I write. The words distract - look into the night! The night sky is closer than close. Right here! Just beyond the veil of understanding, that fire and smoke, lies the already achieved dimensionless expanse, utterly absent of constraint.