Black home

Black is not a colour.
It is the absence of colours.
A seed of emptiness planted into itself to spawn universe within universe.
This is the tree of life they call fractal –
an everlasting birth of deaths.
It grows by wilting and branching
upwards and outwards and folding inwards and downwards
like a samsaric mandala.
This garden of forking labyrinths,
the morbius strip of paths,
of parallel worlds and singular Way –
Tao. Karma. Fate.
How does one travel to meet his destiny in such a multiverse?
Easy. Just breathe.
For between each coming and going is the inevitable passage of space-time.
That’s the secret.
We move even without moving.
So, meaning isn’t found in the search.
Meaning isn’t the search.
But it does start with searching
and stops only with an absolute stopping.
Ah, how silly, it’s present all the while:
Hidden by what’s present; revealed by what’s absent.
And in such an awakening,
one is finally rooted in the doubtless faith that
the self is home.
Because the home is self.


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