The Trance of Mystery

The wind uncovers us from the sand, and we rouse with the sun glinting in our eyes. We rise from the grave again, to haunt the empty sky. What are these dust devils chasing around my mind, ever but turning in circles in trying to see what lies behind their own eyes? If they'd ever fill their own hollow and flow together, where would their confluence take me? I won't find out, because all their energy is spent on trying to find out the ultimate desire behind every other, only to slip into infinite regress and win understand but not knowledge. As long as my desire is to know my desires, I won't know what else I could desire — mystery, the vacuum that draws us into it, is also the only force great enough to draw us onwards, because we can never reach it and therefore can never spiral around it: we can only reach ever further straight towards it. It's the only way to catharsis, to release. What will happen next, even within ourselves, is beyond our understanding, and so people worshipped the mystery as a deity, but it's just another way of trying to fit it into a form they knew, a person… true spirituality merely accepts the mystery for what it is, having no form and every form possible. Give yourself up. When the wind blows into you, for a moment close your eyes as you keep walking. I am nothing, and moment after moment I will return to nothing. I am a stranger in my own consciousness, and my every next thought is a discovery, an adventure. I have no control over what I will do next, what I will become next. Life cannot live itself in any other way than in a trance, in ecstasy. So what will I do next? I don't know, and I must give up trying to find out, but how can I help but be captivated by that question? How do I let it go, if the very next moment is the center of my whole universe? It ever lies before me yet tantalizingly blinds me, defying me, challenging me, but to do what? Argh, I cannot ask that question, but what else can I do, what else do I focus on? If I want to live in perfect freedom, to walk every path that can be walked as they meet in the present, with nothing to which I can commit, then what do I do with all this determination? Where do I aim this energy in advance, before knowing where, after one path of moments has closed and before another has opened? Like a samurai, I must be ready to strike before knowing where or how, because I can't predict in what pattern the ever-shifting desires will flow. It's easy to flee, to think it too complicated and withdraw into a monastery, into a cause, into an institution, and seek only void, where one might see whatever one desire lies beyond all others. But I already know, and I've known all along, and even so, it doesn't help me to predict it — it only indicates the impossibility of predicting: love — the desire of consciousness to flow into every direction is what drives me, and so it can lead to every possibility, to the love of any possible experience. Which is to come next I can never know, for much as I take pride in being myself, that self arises from everything in my environment: I'd have know how every single particle will stimulate each nerve and they each other to predict my own next move, let alone another's as ours affect each other. And all I can do is let it all happen, to say so be it, but whatever may come or go, I will not stop the flow and I will be myself, and dance: I will be free. Until the next move happens, that still determination to be free is all that I can focus my energy on, that it may burst through all that might limit that freedom when it comes: I can but live in freedom through mystery, and in mystery through freedom.