Consider this, old friend:
At dawn, as we awaken from the dream world, the body slips into yesterday’s chosen shirts, pants, and sweaters—
and the mind too begins to dress itself, adorning in moods, fears, and the subtle fabric of thought, borrowed from the past, stitched with concerns and anticipations of the future.
But these are just old garments, concepts, and beliefs, hand-me-downs from the past.
Thoughts, moods, and emotions are like weather—storms, sunshine, fog, and fire.
That sky is pure consciousness—your timeless essence.
When we cease clinging to these garments of thought and no longer identify with the restless weather of the mind, clarity dawns—unbroken, undistorted, radiant.
In such stillness, inspiration is not sought nor forced; it flows naturally, like a gentle breeze through an open window.
And so, true art is not about endlessly washing the garments of thought but about moving beyond the cycle of wearing and discarding—into the silence of the one who has always been unclothed.
At dawn, as we awaken from the dream world, the body slips into yesterday’s chosen shirts, pants, and sweaters—
and the mind too begins to dress itself, adorning in moods, fears, and the subtle fabric of thought, borrowed from the past, stitched with concerns and anticipations of the future.
But these are just old garments, concepts, and beliefs, hand-me-downs from the past.
As the day stretches on, the robes of thought grow heavy—soiled by the dust of experience, burdened with impressions, and layered with fragments tucked away in the hidden vaults of the subconscious.
By nightfall, just as the body must be cleansed of the dust it has gathered, so must the mind be freed of the residue it has collected.
Then comes sleep, the silent laundress, who through dreams washes the day’s unfinished wishes and unspoken desires into quiet completion, restoring us for the fresh dawn of renewal.
But pause with me here, dear friend, and breathe.
Ask yourself:
Must we forever wear these garments of thought?
Were we not born naked, untouched, and innocent?
Perhaps, just perhaps, there is a deeper freedom—
the nakedness of pure awareness, unbound by memory,
untouched by the ceaseless chatter of the mind.
Consider this, dear friend: To shed the noise is not to forsake the world, but to remember this truth:
You are not the wardrobe of thoughts.
You are the vastness in which they appear and dissolve.
You are the vastness in which they appear and dissolve.
Thoughts, moods, and emotions are like weather—storms, sunshine, fog, and fire.
Yet, the clouds and the storms that pass over it never stain the sky.
That sky is pure consciousness—your timeless essence.
When we cease clinging to these garments of thought and no longer identify with the restless weather of the mind, clarity dawns—unbroken, undistorted, radiant.
In such stillness, inspiration is not sought nor forced; it flows naturally, like a gentle breeze through an open window.
And so, true art is not about endlessly washing the garments of thought but about moving beyond the cycle of wearing and discarding—into the silence of the one who has always been unclothed.
Always aware..
Always present...
Always free...
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