In this Poem Daniel Pinchbeck takes a look at The End.Read More
We all know what happens next.
We are going to become creation.
We are going to become God.
We are going to invent God.
God is going to invent us,
then fall into matter,
We will become one.
We will become not-two.
It will happen in slow motion.
It's going to take forever.
It's never going to end.
It already happened,
in the blink of an eye,
like a thought balloon
in a cartooniverse
that suddenly inflates and disappears.
Once upon a time,
We started to live forever.
We became eternity.
We were no longer physical beings.
We were made of astral light.
There was no time, only spaciousness.
We all fell in love with each other.
We all made love with each other
over and over again
in every different position
We knew everything that ever happened
or could happen.
We were so curious and creative.
We loved each other so very much.
There was enough time for everything.
We were so patient and meticulous.
We took the time to do everything perfectly
like carving an incredible temple
on the peak of a jagged mountain,
constructing a sand mandala,
finding a new subatomic particle
in a gigantic super-collider.
Like ice skating on the edge of a cliff,
like kissing the first girl you've always loved so much.
Like kissing her again,
like kissing her again,
like kissing her again.
Like being young again,
Like starting over.
Like seeing everything for the first time,
knowing it for the first time.
Like settling on other worlds.
We always knew that creation was perfect
even when we chose to forget it,
but we decided to become that creation -
to feel such absolute compassion
for each starfish
for each snow flake
for each infant being
for each ancient being
for being itself.
How hard it is to be, at times.
We learned to love and forgive
everything about ourselves,
including our faults and demons,
as we purified and overcame them,
over successive incarnations,
in innumerable universes,
just for the sake of attaining
impartial angelic severity,
for the experience of attaining grace,
enlightenment and illumination.
We always knew it would end like that,
Because nothing ever began,
and it happened over and over again,
eternally - but so lightly and gracefully,
Just enough for the illusion of matter
And the matter of illusion
To join together. Later on,
we apologized to ourselves
for allowing the illusion of suffering
to hurt us so deeply,
He and she and we
Were the greatest artists ever known.
We made it all possible.
We conceived all of it
Without thought or effort.
Whatever we imagined simply happened.
Sometimes this seemed unbearable and tedious
So we self-created nothingness and plunged back into it,
that swallowed us up
into infinity, until
we remembered we had made a date
on Mulberry Street
in the cold winter rain
with a woman in a blue coat
whose eyes were like starlight
whose soul was poetry
on a planet in a solar system in a galaxy,
and how could we miss that appointment,
even if it required
inventing things like
hydrogen, carbon, and oxygen,
gravity and neutrinos,
desires and dreams,
then finding a cab to get us crosstown?
The eternal ecstasy of the Void
Subsumes all into it,
Expels all from it;
Nothing exists - outside of it.
It is not a thing or a way or a path.
It is unconditional.
One response to it is terror -
But that is meaningless.
You can surrender to it, knowing
You were always surrendered to it.
Even God emerges out of it
And sinks back into it.
Does the Void have a memory, a color, a feeling-tone?
No, it has none of those things.
It contains everything
The Void is the effortless answer
to no question.
God, consciousness, creation -
so many colorful distractions,
The Void doesn’t even try
to consume or obliterate them.
Beyond death, beyond nonbeing,
Beyond any quality that can be named,
any shape or form, beyond any duality,
just the limitless, unbounded, unrealizable.
Love is perhaps the last tone one recognizes
as one passes into it.
Madness is just a stage one goes through
on the way to equanimity, stability
in the face of it.
We are already annihilated in its
crystalline feathery infinity -
we are already reconstituted
in trillions upon trillions
of puppet show worlds,
playing these little parts,
strutting our hour out.
When you unite with it,
You become it.
You no longer try, strive, crave, swoon.
You have no place to go.
How sacred this moment is:
Listen to it.
July 19, 2015