The Son of Man, a collection of sticks, wrapped in a leaky bag of meat, blood and wastes and saddled with the stupor of the senses, apparently lurches forward nipped by the hyenas of rajas and tamas or craving the carrot of sattwa, this ignorant upadi toils in the mine of maya oblivious of the blankets of ignorance swaddling the christ child in the manger of their heart. turned away from the Inn, the christ child was born amongst the animals assuring its crucifixion on the karmic wheel of life and death. after petting the donkey of pleasure and feeding the swine of fear they eventually attend to the wailing child of their higher nature to realize it is indeed the star in the east.

All of creation is like a handful of dust thrown into a sunbeam. The dust revealing the sunbeam as much as the light reveals the dust. The play of opposites, creating a circus for the clowns, those duped into the lie of the fall or that they’ve unknowingly sinned because they dare exist. The Awareness that knows the dust and the light, being beginning-less and endless, affords the falling dust an eternity in which to agglutinate and dissolve ad infinitum into myriad forms for the enjoyment of anyone so inclined to notice it, i.e., those dust particles graced with self reflection. Just as the moon has no light of its own, we too are but reflections of the force that threw the dust. The unanswerable mystery that has the flabbergasted on their knees, the scientists in the labs and the evil trying to sell you God in easily digestible little packages with pretty ribbons.

Do not let the memory of a better sandwich ruin the enjoyment of the one you’re eating now.