Mask of Willing

In a retirement center, lives a grand Madame who tries to convince everyone that one can act within goodness through the use of reason which is the key to freedom. I do not believe her, but she charms everyone her convincing speech because it seems all of us posses a certain degree of elaborate judgment. How easily we are enchanted by those who expose their beliefs if they sound convincing enough! Who cares about facts! I do! I do! I really do care about the truth! Why don’t you? What is really good has to be based in truth, and that can only be found in a non-judgmental awareness within a whole we haven’t yet realized yet. We are seeing the truth all the time, but don’t realize it. Can you see the contradiction here?

The mask
of will blows
our minds
with desire.

The winds'
intentionality
at its tightest
formality,
a mask
of necessity
marking our face.

In such heightened
state of belief,
one becomes
the slave of will.

One cannot see
as our facade becomes
that which seems
to be free.

So much it seems
that is no relief
to the affliction
of impotence,
but violence.

Will in order,
Will with reason
to live in freedom,
they say,
but do not let
them know
desire itself
and not
themselves
who owns
control.

Do you think
you are free?

But have you realized
freedom is not in thought?

The most treacherous
delusion is being trapped
in chants of independence
while being chained
to your own beliefs.

But first,
realize the trap
so you can actually
escape from your thirst.

Trapped in the expectations
of those beliefs,
trapped in the desires
of those who grief,
trapped in the hush
of untamed time.

In such state of affairs,
there is no place to run.

In a world of aggression
we inhabit for they say
that all that cannot
be possessed
has not been desired
with enough power
and so they resolve:
Nothing is unwilling,
only keep billing
those willing.

Where does
actuality lie?

While the colorblind cry
for more power,
the attentive release their wills
waiting for the flower of reality
to bloom through their
multicolored breath
as one becomes one
with the wind.

The exhalation of perfection
is the seed that gives birth
to that which cannot be willed
but only attended
as the opening of petals
in a delicate flow
of rivers and foam
that falls into
the ocean
of love.