We none want to be here. In the midst of all the possible effectual luring, substantiated commitments, and convincing amicable distractions, we still exist as unsettled, dissatisfied manifestations of deeply unresolved confusion. We awake in continued perplexity and sleep in shrouded mystery. No matter how much we pursue avenues of supposedly purposeful, meaningful, productive and prolific highways of verifiable efficiency, we remain discontent. Why? Because in/from/during the crux of the matter, we inherently know that none of it really makes one bit of difference and much less sense.

We try to say that it does, go to great lengths to make ourselves believe that it does, even to the point of creating all sorts of beheading scenarios of compelling, persuasive emotional intellectual arguments to prove it does, when it fact, the inescapable truth stands while the rest falls away. We are not the least bit interested in being here, on this planet, alive, taking up space, breathing.

We realize with full certainty that it's either a harsh cruel joke on the part of the divine creator, for our being born simply to die, or that in order to get through it, we had better invent every possible employing situation as an ever evolving, turbulent, unsuspecting state of affairs to engage our minds, implode our hearts, invest our bodies while through these ineffectual, purposeless actions, our precious ruthless soul stimulates us to go on. Bottom line: she must be entertained while the band plays on.

I realize these words sound much too harsh to be readily appreciated, openly accepted, and properly assimilated. I dare say that they may even hint at pious human futility, almost to the flavor of promoting suicide but nothing could be further from demonstrated actuality. Instead, what I am proposing congregates itself in certifiable conscious living. A fully involved, animated enthused participation without a falsely selfishly generated lust of result to win, succeed, or get something in the end. There is no end and there's nothing to get. With each breath we inhale, we are getting it all right this minute in full energized, delectable, splendor.

In other words, this is as good as it gets. We are here for the earth experience, as a consciously motivated human being while the disinterested, impersonal soul scours the depths of emotional intrigue in the duration of brightly colored settings. These meticulous settings may either be infiltrated with all sorts of glamour or debased with incorrigible unsettling despair; the unmistakable stage remains precariously designed for the actors to play out their delegated parts in the overtly hailed, orchestrated, mysterious story. Illuminating? Yes. Frustrating, without a doubt; the emotional vested scenarios never release the tension of restless impervious anxiety.

We remain anxious, bored, restless and dissatisfied because we continue to expect something and because we ungraciously expect (most often times, demand) that our gluttonous whims and whams to be satisfied, we suffer immeasurably. Sad, but true. We want to be noticed, expect people to care and show it and complain because we didn't get what we thought we wanted at the time we wanted it, in the precise manner it should have arrived.

Frustration arises from our wanting to achieve something and being thwarted in the process. Or it could just as easily arise from our wanting to believe something when from the core of our definitive being; we know it to be a lie. In other words we can't change bulls into butterflies. Each animal has within its unique character specific reasons for occupying the place of reference, for the duration of time accompanied and by the definitive interaction of experiences it faces. Like the natural habitat of animals, we need not be concerned nor are we to try to alter our delegated paths of circular destiny. Patterns repeat and repeat and repeat. Round and round she goes and where she stops only the infinitely designed atom knows. (And, it's not telling.)

If that be the case, why, we do we, as reasonable human beings, spend so much time identified with others, interpreting their particular state of affairs, interfering with a specifically relegated course of action and involved in matters that clearly do not concern us? Because we are insatiably curious, incalculably impatient and irretrievably determined to prove what we do matters. As insufferable as these words may seem: it does not matter to anyone else but US!

As the mystic Maulana Rumi wrote around 800 years ago, "If you could get rid of yourself just once, the secret of secrets would open to you. The face of the unknown, hidden beyond the universe would appear on the mirror of your perception!" Not that he knew anymore of any anything than you do, but the idea of our being so wrapped in the entangling details of our infinitely insignificant lives, as opposed to the any other of the almost 7 billion people who reside on the planet, leaves room for further discussion.

We simply cannot leave "well enough' alone. We insist on pushing a rope. We try to make things happen before they are going to, calculate innumerable outcomes, gossip unceasingly 'our view' on possible circumstances, search the benefit for ourselves in every situation, hoard, hurry and hustle our time, effort and energy in hopes to "be somebody" or 'get somebody". (Which is utterly vain and venomous for us, and others involved in the ridiculous whirling frenzy.)

Whenever we get to the place that we realize with full certainty that we are gluttonous creatures who seek favor and recognition for our so called specialness, then and only then, will we come to value the sanctified language of Master Jesus when he said, "You are in the world but not of it." In other words, there's nothing the world can offer us or interest us in the least but because we've bought the story of our extraordinary abilities, along with the need to flaunt their razzle dazzle appeal, we remain miserable.

We are none separate from events, people, places and particulars. Not one person is any more special or favorably relished than another. No one has it any better or worse than we do. Every mortal, without relent, battles with his/her own demons momentarily. And, although the charade of 'having it all together' perpetuates the fallacious veneer people work fastidiously to establish and maintain, we none the less are all in this thing together. We are inseparably entwined in the fabric of life's inexpressible sacred movement.

Our innate state of being expresses inexplicable bliss. But bliss not attached to/for/with anything or anyone. Just as our level of happiness remains independent of outer circumstances, so too, do our lives represent the natural and convenient flow of universal ease, vibrantly infectious, projections of immeasurable omnipotence. We simply can't measure, gauge, interpret, comprehend or dismiss one iota of it as being out of order or uncalled for. The fact is: we are in for the duration; we might as well enjoy the rounds. Or like the infamous Mohammad Ali so eloquently stated, "Dance like a butterfly; sting like a bee."