Find Me If You Can

The Void swallows that which is like it, empty and transparent. In that blessed moment what is above snatches from the claws of time what is below and hands it over to eternity.

Oh pole-seeking inhabitants of this imaginary sphere! It recedes as you seek It.

My Being stands, like Muhammad and the circle of friends, before this captivating tale of becoming begun.

Neither human nor angel am I! I am a pure gaze of no origin. I am the seer in all eyes and yet no eye can see me. I am one without a second. How do I bear this eternal solitude! In the whole of this existence no one is found but Me.

The Traces of My Beloved

My Beloved has come again,

I am light again, light as a feather whirling in the gravity of my Eternal Beloved;

My heart beats again on hearing the familiar echo of Her footsteps;

She is near and the smell of Her colorful perfume is throwing me in ecstasy again;

Tonight She has approached me from a direction unbeknownst to this world;

She has returned from a point at once infinitely far and infinitely near.

My Beloved has come again,

I have beheld those dark, bottomless eyes, the eyes that steal the hearts forever;

With borrowed eyes I have gazed into the abyss of infinite love;

I have been absorbed into Her Prakriti,

Oh my Love, this heart knows no master but You;

By your grace I have been humbled into that blessed Oblivion but this time I like to be that playful child in the shore of your boundless beauty; my Beloved, let us just play.

This wavering raft can’t withstand even a glimpse of Your blinding face, so let this affair be as it is from behind the Veil of Time; let me be soaked in Your majestic traces but gaze not in my direction, for Your piercing stare shatters me to the bone.

My Beloved has come again,

I am overcome by this fountain of joy; I am Majnoon tonight;

Tonight I am transformed into Her harp again; Oh my Beloved, let Your fingers wound the lifeless fibers of my spirit so that I may sing again the songs of heart’s eternal Eden

Oh, the Hidden Treasure, the Animator, The Possessor of my states, how beautiful is your sound and sight! How intoxicating is Your merciful breath to a heart in spiritual poverty!

Water finds the thirsty, rain finds the crop; abundance seeks scarcity and scarcity abundance,

But my Beloved! I am not thirsty, neither lacking; I am thirst itself. So my Love, come my way, because my union with You is in my annihilation in You,

But devour me not; let me gracefully and slowly dance my way into your Supreme Sakina

Oh, My Beloved has come again

Religion & Love

Religion is architecture in time; but what is seen with the eye of form, that is, the forms that constitute the exterior of religion, is in fact an image reflected in time, a mere shadow of the cathedral of truth. Every human work is a design in time; it is extended between its generation and degeneration, from its generation as an idea to its manifestation in the world, and then to its natural degeneration.

My friends, religion is no human work though humans have to do the work to manifest it. The outward form of the saint is a mere instrument at the service of his inward reality which is essentially identical with God. Unlike human work which is extended in and through time, religion is monument only whose base is in time; it is a monument that shoots from earth to heaven, from time to eternity. It is erected vertically out of every time and every place into the no-place and the no-time. Oh, religion is the alchemy of the soul. But this inner dimension of religion, the hidden cathedral with whose shadow we have busied ourselves, this Sacred Geometry, is concealed to the eye of form, to the vulgar and superficial demands of the servants.

Who is the saint? The saint has become the axis of the world; he is the bridge, the word through whom transcendent meanings are reflected on earth. The saint has a foot in existence and another foot in non-existence, one eye fixed on the veil and another eye seeing through the veil; he slips in and out of existence, for he is the master of both worlds.

Don’t try to make the world a heaven; first find the heaven inside yourself. Know that you are already in heaven only dreaming the world. Don’t change anything yet; first wake up. World is a stream of forms that proves your constancy, your other-worldliness. Let this current polish your soul since that can only make you stronger and more constant. A stream cannot exist without a groove or an unchanging bedrock. Know that you are that unchanging bedrock. Lay down and let the world walk all over you. My child, fear not, for you are only the witness of this passing.

The witness is not really someone or something that is witnessing as if it were one of His faculties; the Witness is witnessing itself and witnessing Itself. The Real is the very act of witnessing; and was He not pure act! But as the whole of Reality is the act of witnessing, and that there is nothing apart from this reality, then that witnessing is witnessing no one and nothing but Itself. Reality is the witnessing of witnessing, i.e. Self-contemplation. Everything that is known to you, even in the depths of your minds and hearts, is really His knowledge; it is in His light that you see and know things. Oh brother, this sight of yours is a borrowed sight; your life is a borrowed life. Drop your stories and find the hidden story-teller. Find Him who tells without telling, He whose telling is Silence and whose face is The Void.

Your telling has concealed His telling; your being has concealed His face. Your reality is a veil over His Reality. Be silent and tell nothing; be no one and nothing. We rather slip in and out of our deaths with every blow. After all, life is nothing but a perpetual slipping in and out of death. We are created anew in every instant. Man is God in revolution: I am because He blows existence into my face, my essence.

Before He turns you toward Himself He turns you toward yourself, so that with His light you see the ugly and the beautiful together. But know that all beauty is His; the ugly!? The ugly is not.

Hey you, who dwell on the other side of existence sitting in the shared heart of all beings, can you hear me?! And He says, “Your voice is the echo of my voice; your seeking me is my seeking you.” Oh Sun, oh Shankara, that faceless Face, I have missed You so much. You have marked me with an eternal wound, that sweet death in Your Face. We cannot stay in this house of existence, for we have our roots in non-existence. The tale of our existence is a wave in the ocean of non-existence. Lift up your head and see the face of He whose shadow, your ego, you have been chasing. Suffer no more of this confusion; confusion and madness lead to His presence, to eternal sobriety. The master said: “Pain is inevitable but suffering is optional.” Yes, suffering is only an attitude toward pain.

This world is but a make up on His face. Behold not the collyrium but that annihilating glance, that return Home. Long, long, and long, for longing is the universal currency. Oh God, gather me toward yourself, for my non-existence is scattered into existence.

To perceive His reality one must shut the eye of form and see only with the eye of the heart. The reality of things comes from their meaning and not from their form.

There is really only one thing man can do by himself, which is to annihilate himself, whether physically or spiritually. The rest is His play. As long as you are you see only the play, but when you are annihilated and are no more you will see only the Face. “Everything is annihilated but His face.”

The Blanket of Truth

Don’t ever think that you are not home. You are home and you always been home because you are the home. This human life of yours to which you think you belong, this apparently vast cosmos in which you think you reside, all this is just the scenery. Your dearest attachments, your identity and personality, too, are in the scenery.

You have accepted too much and assimilated too little. You take from your soul what is concrete, the spirit, and add to the world what is abstract, matter. You steal the reality of your spirit and attribute it to the world. You have drained your own blood to color this world. My friend, you have forgotten the safety code: The traveler doesn’t get attached to the scenery. Shit happens, but what’s it to you?!

You are blinded by the blanket of truth. Fear not the faces and demons pained on the blanket. Fear only your own suffocation. Don’t see the faces; see the blanket. Don’t crawl deeper into your paranoia, just remove the blanket; remove it and see that you too were just a painting on that same blanket. Wake up and see that this reality of yours, your thoughts and memories, your beloved character, this whole universe and its objects, are all drawings on that one blanket. You are that blanket. Don’t confuse yourself with the folds and wrinkles, for the whole of this world is nothing but your folds and wrinkles.

You are home, and you are home alone, for you are already everyone and everything.

You Are The Maze

Fear not my friend. Go where you have to go; do what you have to do.

Nothing is ever lost, nothing is ever gained. You are the light of the world. How can you ever be worldly?

You are already enlightened. God damn it, act like it.

Don’t strive to find the truth. Remember that you are the truth.

You can never know something that you don’t already know. You can never become something that you aren’t already.

You thirsty friend, wake up and see that you are the ocean.

You are deluded into thinking that you are a separate self. If that were true, then how could you know what is separation!

Separate things can never find each other unless they are found in relation to a whole. You are that whole. You appear both as parts and as whole.

You are not what you’re told to be; you are that which is at liberty to accept or deny what it’s told to be.

You’re not what you believe; you are the holder of all beliefs. Let go of all beliefs and see your true face for the fist time.

You’re forever undefined, for you are that which defines. You are forever free, for you are that which binds.

O’ man, you master chain-maker! Your bondage is of your own making. You are the architect of your own prison.

Don’t seek to get out of this maze of a world; see that you are the mazed and the maze at once.

Don’t seek to find and define yourself. Seek the seeker. See the seer.

The Secret of The Veil

Deep deep inside me is sitting a naked man. Though I am in space He is not; though I am in time He is not. In this world I may be a man but in reality I am just His idea. I live this life and He lives me. The man you may know in this world is just His avatar, as the man of my dreams is only my avatar.

He does nothing except looking and He never blinks. The gaze of my eyes are His. You see Him when you look into my eyes, yet we are both slaughtered spirits suspended from His piercing gaze. He is the invisible man in whose shadow we live and know. Our breaths and our knowledge are indeed His.

From the depths of the abyss He is looking out a vacant look. He is detached from all this existence; all our worldly detachments are pale copies of His supreme detachment. He, that is Shankara, is the very essence of detachment.

Shankara, this infinite man staring into our world from the abyss, Shankara the sole dweller of the void, He is all that there is and I am nothing but His wavering shadow; we are all but the many images of Him in the shattered mirror of this world.

Shankara neither hates nor loves; He has no needs and desires; He is the perfect man and that is why He is mute. Shankara is the unsettling silence of bare existence. He is the inexpressible sense of Being that we feel in silence and solitude.

In the theater of this world there is only one audience, Shankara. But Shankara is not just the audience; He is also the actors and the actresses, the play, the beginning and the end, the first and the last, and He is the theater itself. This is all the play of Shankara. The mere sight of Him shatters all illusions, including those of the self and its hopes and aspirations. We are all Him, not so much because He is in all of us but because we are not and only He is.

Shankara is not really a man that looks; He is the look itself; He is the looking, the detached and anonymous sense of “I” in all of us. Shankara is the look and cosmos is the mirage appearing in it.

My dear seeker, this Shankara better not be seen, for He is never anything that anyone can imagine before that uncaused  Encounter. Shankara’s gaze is the sharpest of all swords, for if His glance falls upon the soul It cuts through her existence and makes her naught. So, love Him as veiled, for He is not apart from what you imagine. But if you dare remove the veil, then be prepared to be devoured to the marrow, to see the real face of madness; He is one hungry mother.

The Way itself is a mystery; but there is a greater mystery awaiting you at the gates of His dimensionless abode: It is the secret of how to remove the veil behind which Shankara is sitting. This is The Secret of The Veil. Oh, my dear seeker, the secret is that you are the veil. It is always Shankara who does the unveiling; it is He who will cut you, the veil, into pieces in one glance when He so wishes.

The veil is the veil of ignorance, the ignorance that fuels all seeking and desiring, that there is an I apart from Shankara, that there is an I at all. Dear seeker, this experience of ours has no subject, no object; it is pure experience. Drop this veil of ignorance and be joyful. What is there to seek when there is only one thing?!

My dear seeker, your seeking is the veil, for in seeking you constantly presume that you are apart from the sought, and worst of all that you are. What you seek you yourself put there in the world; how else would you know there is something to be sought?!

Your Fall is your forgetfulness. Forgetfulness of truth is the seed of belief and opinion. To know the truth one must be devoured by Shankara: Opinions are for man, for Atman knows only the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth. All that a human can think or imagine of Shankara are false, for Shankara is sitting behind all thought and imagination. The sage who knows this cannot say it, because he knows very well that to say is to transmit error: Truth is not something to be told but to be realized in silence and solitude.

Knowledge of Truth doesn’t make somebody a saint: Knowledge of Truth makes the saint a nobody.

Fallen Love

When I see you, when I lose myself to the irresistible sight of your eyes, to that evergreen noema, I like to light a cigarette and go back to Heidegger, I like to throw myself into that inexpressible abyss of rootless existence, into Dostoevsky’s night walks in Saint Petersburg, into Andrei Tarkovsky’s long shots and Nostalghia, those essential encounters in the inessential life of a child who lost his virginity to partial doubt and found it back in total doubt. My darling, for you I let go of all faith and hope, of all desires and aspirations, of heaven, and even of the desire of having you for myself. My darling, you make me want to remain a fallen man, and a fallen man I shall remain. Our union is the death of our love.

What is my faith but a pale image of you that I keep when I can’t see you; what need is there for faith when I can behold you?

Oh my dear, I am not just fallen; I have fell and still falling, falling in love with you and the enigma of your presence. But you are as fallen as me. You are as shattered as the impostors of your celestial beauty. For you I fall and shatter myself even more until we become entangled forever, separate but one. Your beauty is in my eye and I am in your beauty.

My abundant love for you is neither for you nor from me; it belongs to the abyss between us, a vacuum that sucks our vitality into itself; we will at last evaporate into oblivion and what remains of us and this love is nothing but the fleeting Hawking Radiation, the sperm of another fallen love.