Words
are slippery.
Use with caution:
writing-speaking,
reading-listening.

When speaking
of the unspeakable,
they simply point—
never describe.
To the curious,
they reveal wonder.
To the grasping mind,
they're another brick
in the wall of separation.

I often write:
“Rest in and as Being.”
It is evocative.
It gestures toward
the ceasing of seeking.
But in truth,
Being simply IS—
beyond resting or striving.

Experience is transience.
Not one moment,
not one subtle sense of centre
is fixed.

Words are clouds of dust—
never a foundation
for building a worldview.

They only point,
until the realiser
is also swept away
in the flow
that awakens to its nature
as luminous fluctuations
in choiceless, effortless,
unclaimed
Awareness.

And the paradox:
Words are the threads
that weave this poem.
They arise as experience—
a pen moving on a page.
To what end?

Being celebrating Being,
radiating essence and presence
as invitation
to ears that hear
beyond the words.