Leftovers
The sense of self is not the body, not the mind, not the life.
Imagination usurps the eternal awareness for its own mortal schemes,
For its time-bound creations, that are, in reality, no more lasting than the moment.
Reincarnation is but an imaginary concept; no thespian returns to center stage again and again.
All are new seeds, new actors, in which the awareness, the mystery, performs yet another one-time show.
All who are born to the stage, are the same awareness, the same consciousness, the same witness.
Call it theater, call it matrix, call it god, call it whatever you will, it is one in all, all in one.
It is quantum stagecraft: unscripted, extemporaneous, serendipitous, happenchance.
* * * *
What can be reborn in the timeless, ever-present moment,
That which is unborn, undying, indivisible, nonexistent?
Breadcrumbs
Women can be nasty fiends, who I put in hindsight as quickly as possible.
Thank the gods at this writing, that I only have to deal with one sister,
Mainly because she lives with me Mum, the main reason, I still here endure.
Were I to be reborn, I might well disappear wherever; never see any family again.
Of course, there were plenty of good moments, too; mine was a very easy, pleasant family.
But not a bother I would want, in the even more solitary path that another incarnation would wander.