Tuesday, June 22, 2004
How frustratingly incomplete life is. Even the occasional moment of perfection soon gives way to the hunger for more, and one has to in effect start over to fill in the empty places. We are like painters for whom new expanses of canvas continually reveal themselves in order to be covered by our creative capacity. And we instantly use the brush of our minds to cover them in thought-forms and perceptions so as to convert them into our world. Sometimes new worlds get created but in time they begin to look a lot like the old world. We are consumers of the fresh bread of pure potentiality, compelled to ingest it at every turn, converting it to form. We are stars trying to burn ourselves out by grasping the void all around and wrapping ourselves in the cloak of darkness. But it feeds us in the process and our universe expands further. There is no end.