Poet, why do we crave the chase?
We wish to feel wanted, less lonely, for an hour or two.
Then it slips away and we’re left with nothing but regret.
Seeking existential reassurance from one another, knowing their opinions won’t satisfy us but encouraging them anyway.
We fade into ourselves and don't much like the new digs.
A cozy seaside villa is unable to satisfy us any more than a derelict tenement in some urban hellscape.
Socrates once asked, "Why are you surprised travel does not fulfill you when you bring yourself along everywhere you go?
Hence, we are summarily evicted for latent anhedonia.
Needing clarification, I press the Poet.
How are boredom and desire conquered if we all desire love?
Love is not found in perpetual reaction.
When we stop identifying our sense of self with every passing thought and fleeting desire, love descends and fills us up.
The chatter of our personal narrative fades away.
Once a place of inner silence has been reached, unbridled liberty is achieved. Freed of the need to desperately chase after and grasp at desires, we cherish the love surrounding us.
Thus, if one is wholly immersed in the present moment, they shall surely escape the knotted ropes tying them to the spiritual detritus of desire.
Here, an eavesdropping stranger interjects.
Well, what about the bonds of others?
Turning to the conversational interloper, the Poet measures his next answer.
Before acting upon another, ask yourself if both of you will benefit from your reaching out.
Will it entrench you both more deeply in egoic life?
For is engagement not partially rooted in desire?
Our new friend's riposte is barbed.
Is desire so awful?
The Poet answers with a gentle nod.
Desire inevitably leads to pain.
A desire for attention. A desire for money, power, sex.
All share the same conclusion. Loss.
Our true selves shed for the egoic realm’s threadbare cloak.
Awash in craving for these clothes, those tattoos, that person.
Frightened from being alive and alone, we acquire things in the hope, someone, anyone, will notice.
Think of us for a few seconds.
Convince us that here and now isn’t a nightmare.
You are infinite. You contain untold multitudes.
Unsure of the Poet's proclamation, I express my doubts.
How will I know which multitude is me and not subtle reflections of you?
My trepidation is met by a generous smile.
Good question. Your internal mirror is still too blurry to reveal thine eternal soul. It is obscured by frenetic flurries woven by the fantastic web of your myopic inner dialogue.
Terrified to let go, we mistakenly believe that surrendering our preconceptions, self-importance, and carefully constructed identities means surrendering our sense of control.
Often what is truly sought is but the illusion of control.
Thirsting to be tiny despots in our fiefdoms of self.
We wish to be Ozymandias, King of Kings.
Look upon me and despair!
And yet I ask you, why should we sacrifice forever's expanse for the shoddy facsimile of power?
The Poet gives me some time to ponder this.
But where can we go if there's nothing to do but be?
Hamming it up, he rubs his eyes and blinks in disbelief.
You must try to see we never left the Well of Creation.
Lower your bucket into the cavernous depths.
Invigorate yourself with its loving energy.
You shall never spend another second alone.
Om’s waves play upon the shores of your mind.
Arise to the sweet coos of affection.
Grow transfixed by her beauteous light.
She is the most patient lover ever conceived.
Her love for you flows throughout the cosmos.
A million-and-one lifetimes or more she shall wait.
Her radiance bathes you each moment of every day.
Oh, silly boy.
Make your way home.
Unmask your compassion.
Do you see how loved you are?
Join her in the kingdom of being.