Our Final Fevered Dream.
The final act is now about to be acted out. Everyone who has performed in the play has to appear, and that is why there are so many of us now.
All the people who have ever lived in this particular Cosmic Game, who have been vibrating on this frequency that we call planet Earth, have returned.
Round and round we have all been going:; jumping on the ride and jumping off, jumping on and jumping off; over and over again.
We are now all gathered to find out'who done it', to partake in the grand finale.
We all know what happens at the end of the play. We know the script by heart, but we chose to forget.Or- were we made to forget ?
The time has come though, we know deep down , for all to be revealed, for the reasons for these shadows of joy and despair, with all the notes on the myriad octaves in between, being played out., in our life after life , after life.
The black notes and the white notes have been playing non-stop.The minor key and the major key keep changing with the quavers and the semi-quavers supplying the subtle nuances , accompanied by the unexpected change of beat, or the beat of change, that just goes on in all our lives.
One moment, such a celebration of life; the carefree abandon of the illusion; a glimpse of what makes the shadows appear so real.
The moment the sunbeam falls with unconditional love upon the mundane table in your room.You stare transfixed- just for a second, and you've got it, and you're gone, then its gone.
Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds ?
No. You, here and now.
That look on her face when she looks at you. That look you store in your minds photo' album to return to, for comfort, for hope. Is she your mama, or Virgin Mary, or your soulmate, or don't you really know.?
But you know she is there.
Alone by the seaside with the sun in your hair : the sea, the sky and you make such a perfect pair.A feeling of oneness with everything, lasts one second , and then you're alone again, missing something; missing a dream you once did dream; Missing that elusive, wondrous thing.
The glimpse of a face that you know and love, but you think you have never met before, staring at you and only you, through a crowd .There is the head where you place the crown, there is my smile, instead of my frown, this is the one from way back when--- oh, imagination , you are leaping, you are spinning. out of control again..
The space between the shadow and the maker of the shadow. You caught it, you were it, for a moment-less moment. But it goes, and its back to holding on to the formed image you believe is you. Like a child you cling onto the elephants neck as it spins round and round. on this roundabout.
The dance of no restrictions, no rules, no laws. The Dance that is The Dance, and you have danced it. Yes you have. Some a few times , some hardly ever and a few all the time.
How often do we dance this ? Hardly ever we cry. When we have we know that we are.; that the whole script of life for once makes sense. Most of the time though, none of it makes any sense at all.
The raised voices, the trembling lips, the deep crimson hurt you feel blazing through your heart. Why, why, why ?
Why me ? Why him ? Why her ?
Why is life so cruel ?
Yet life can be so breathtakingly, wondrously, magical when all the beauty, all the dream stuff you dream, is surpassed by what is happening. This illusion becomes mountains above the
fantasy.; the daydreams that you love.
A peak against a valley.
At long last we will name and capture the villain; the stealer of our dreams; the robber of our youth; the accuser before our imagined God.
The answers to the eternal questions will be given to us. Bit by bit the secrets of eternity, the spirit of the Rose will seep into the consciousness of the few.
The roundabout has spun for so long with us weaving our webs on and on, seeing the same old faces, life after life; singing the same old songs in a slightly different key. Still doing the same old things, saying the tired worn-out phrases.
Hoping, wanting, laughing, crying, half asleep, till you 'die'.
What a strange set-up !
The roundabout is stopping.
The dark, red , plush curtains are slowly drawing back.
The orchestra strikes up.
The time has come.
The stage is packed with us all. Us old, old friends, who have been through so much together.
And some will be very troubled when the truth is out, and then an acceptance, an understanding of a love and a peace that was, but is not now, beyond our understanding.
All the people who have ever lived in this particular Cosmic Game, who have been vibrating on this frequency that we call planet Earth, have returned.
Round and round we have all been going:; jumping on the ride and jumping off, jumping on and jumping off; over and over again.
We are now all gathered to find out'who done it', to partake in the grand finale.
We all know what happens at the end of the play. We know the script by heart, but we chose to forget.Or- were we made to forget ?
The time has come though, we know deep down , for all to be revealed, for the reasons for these shadows of joy and despair, with all the notes on the myriad octaves in between, being played out., in our life after life , after life.
The black notes and the white notes have been playing non-stop.The minor key and the major key keep changing with the quavers and the semi-quavers supplying the subtle nuances , accompanied by the unexpected change of beat, or the beat of change, that just goes on in all our lives.
One moment, such a celebration of life; the carefree abandon of the illusion; a glimpse of what makes the shadows appear so real.
The moment the sunbeam falls with unconditional love upon the mundane table in your room.You stare transfixed- just for a second, and you've got it, and you're gone, then its gone.
Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds ?
No. You, here and now.
That look on her face when she looks at you. That look you store in your minds photo' album to return to, for comfort, for hope. Is she your mama, or Virgin Mary, or your soulmate, or don't you really know.?
But you know she is there.
Alone by the seaside with the sun in your hair : the sea, the sky and you make such a perfect pair.A feeling of oneness with everything, lasts one second , and then you're alone again, missing something; missing a dream you once did dream; Missing that elusive, wondrous thing.
The glimpse of a face that you know and love, but you think you have never met before, staring at you and only you, through a crowd .There is the head where you place the crown, there is my smile, instead of my frown, this is the one from way back when--- oh, imagination , you are leaping, you are spinning. out of control again..
The space between the shadow and the maker of the shadow. You caught it, you were it, for a moment-less moment. But it goes, and its back to holding on to the formed image you believe is you. Like a child you cling onto the elephants neck as it spins round and round. on this roundabout.
The dance of no restrictions, no rules, no laws. The Dance that is The Dance, and you have danced it. Yes you have. Some a few times , some hardly ever and a few all the time.
How often do we dance this ? Hardly ever we cry. When we have we know that we are.; that the whole script of life for once makes sense. Most of the time though, none of it makes any sense at all.
The raised voices, the trembling lips, the deep crimson hurt you feel blazing through your heart. Why, why, why ?
Why me ? Why him ? Why her ?
Why is life so cruel ?
Yet life can be so breathtakingly, wondrously, magical when all the beauty, all the dream stuff you dream, is surpassed by what is happening. This illusion becomes mountains above the
fantasy.; the daydreams that you love.
A peak against a valley.
At long last we will name and capture the villain; the stealer of our dreams; the robber of our youth; the accuser before our imagined God.
The answers to the eternal questions will be given to us. Bit by bit the secrets of eternity, the spirit of the Rose will seep into the consciousness of the few.
The roundabout has spun for so long with us weaving our webs on and on, seeing the same old faces, life after life; singing the same old songs in a slightly different key. Still doing the same old things, saying the tired worn-out phrases.
Hoping, wanting, laughing, crying, half asleep, till you 'die'.
What a strange set-up !
The roundabout is stopping.
The dark, red , plush curtains are slowly drawing back.
The orchestra strikes up.
The time has come.
The stage is packed with us all. Us old, old friends, who have been through so much together.
And some will be very troubled when the truth is out, and then an acceptance, an understanding of a love and a peace that was, but is not now, beyond our understanding.
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