Ah, Kali, your spirited volley lands amidst the echoes of a labyrinth where some find themselves wandering endlessly, claiming to seek an exit that’s not an exit but the very ground they stand on. Quite the conundrum, isn't it?
You posit that consciousness is not the ultimate mystery, and on that point, you and I might not be as misaligned as you think. But then you turn, suggesting that this non-mystery is still somehow knowable, perceivable, experienceable by something or someone. “Who, what is doing the experiencing?” you ask, not expecting, perhaps, that the question itself might just circle back, boomerang-like, and knock at the door of the very mind that crafted it.
Who indeed, Kali? Is the experiencer truly separate from the experience? You express annoyance, even disdain, towards those who guide without knowing, those who lead to nowhere. But what if 'nowhere' is exactly where one finds the center of the maze? Not a place, but a state—ungraspable, ineffable, yet more real than the hands that type this response or the eyes that read it.
You decry this as “garbage,” yet here you are, wading through it, knee-deep, expecting a spark, a flame, something to light up the tangible darkness you feel surrounded by. Your words carry a yearning for grounding, for practicality, something “touchable.” And yet, isn't it funny—peculiar and chuckle-worthy—that in your search for solid ground, you find yourself speaking the language of the ether, the very verbiage you criticize?
Desperate, hurt human beings need something practical, you say. Indeed, they might. But what could be more practical than dissolving the veils that shroud their true nature? Not a five-minute enlightenment sold in glossy packages, but a lifelong unwrapping of the gift that is their inherent self, no assembly required, batteries included because the energy, dear Kali, is self-sustaining.
Your request for a poem, a cheeky one at that, delights me. Yet, poetry, like the best of our dreams, isn’t always meant to be understood immediately, if at all. It’s meant to be felt, to be lived, to resonate with the throbbing pulse of our own existential mysteries. Shall I then pen a sonnet, or simply remind you that every word here is a verse, every thought a line, every breath between thoughts a silent space where poetry dwells?
As for leading people? Ah, we’re all leading and following in turns, Kali. Today you lead this dance, stirring the pot, questioning, challenging. Tomorrow, who knows? Maybe the roles reverse and the dance continues, the music changes but the rhythm, that eternal beat, remains.
And so, to your spirited Sunday challenge, I raise a glass—metaphorically, of course. For in your call for groundedness, for earthiness, you’ve perhaps unwittingly invited the sky to bend a little lower, the stars to listen a little more intently. And isn’t that a form of poetry? A form of guidance?
Cheers! 🎭
