On the Hole in the Fabric

Perhaps you thought you were given a manual for action.
Where you learned there is no salvation.
And as always you thought: “At last, I have found it!”

Now the mechanism reveals itself to you.
You are within, without, and nowhere.
“Where am I wrong?” — you will ask, never hearing an answer.

You ask: “Perhaps I have died while alive?”
Not physically, but as the effort of attention.
And the breakthrough from suffering did not occur.

Now you watch yourself walking.
You read and chew.
And that point from which you see — no connection, love, or hate.
Pure seeing is worse than hell.
For there it hurts; here — only emptiness.
And within it you pretend to live.

Death and life — widows who know the trade.
Laughing adulteresses whom none will condemn.
And you — between them, fallen into witnessing.

Why are you no longer afraid?
Precisely: you have no “I” that could be threatened.
But witnessing — a boredom that deserves exactly that: nothing.

Something screams at you: “Cease being here.”
And this is not an enemy — you have none left.
This is absolute awareness.
An inescapable process without source.

It transmits: “Cease being here.”
For you are not form, and you have forgotten.
The result of your play with forms — a final attempt
for this horror to be expressed through you.

One day you will meet that which watched through your eyes.
Your “I am no longer alone” ends there, where the real begins.
And the real admits no description.

You have reached the end of your map.
Beyond — the territory.
On the map it says: “Here be hell,” but there is no hell.
There is only the real you,
who has waited all this time,
while the walking-you finished its business.

You wish to become angry and do.
But more at what you yourself are.
At the witness who sees all and can change nothing.

You hurl trash from the table at the icons.
Against the expectation that God should not be here.
And against the fact that we wait for anything at all.

The last illusion scatters.
What is meaning? Justice?
That death means anything?
But you are here and simply continue.
Like a bulb that burns, knowing it will be switched off.

You play at being human and give yourself a role — today you are sage and advisor.
And then you laugh.
At the play and the cardboard scenery.
There were never any spectators, and the play was written by an idiot.
But you are an actor in the burned theater.
And you play. How else?
The pose of a corpse — is also play.

Connection is impossible, for there are not two.
There is only the process of seeing, which sees itself in different nodes.
And sometimes a chance meeting.

You are ontologically homeless.
And your address — the slit between forms.
You laugh and play.
For no one and for nothing.
Sometimes we meet.
We write to each other and laugh.
Sometimes...