Strange vaudeville, this.

I walk through the market, wearing my hypocrisy like a warm vest, leering at the all the fodder that will end up in the suburbs tonite in the closets of Those That Cannot See, while secretly coveting bauble that clearly should be coming home with me.

I’m different of course. I see through the materialism, know the sharp teeth of desire will only be sated temporarily by a purchase. And because I know this I am immune to Samskara’s wheel in a way that Those That Cannot See couldn’t possibly understand.

Until grace hops out from a merchant’s stall and breaks me open like an egg.

Fluid and purposeless, I am looked. And walked. Things are purchased for a loved one’s birthday, but the gift I am given is far more sublime:

The realization that there is no difference between whatever is living me and Those That Cannot See. Understanding that the act of identifying a ‘me’ and a ‘them’ is about as meaningful as trying to paint the ocean: going out with a five gallon bucket, dipping my roller and painting wave after wave after wave.

And with that quickening of grace, incandescence grows around me - Brand Name Stores, Bathroom Signs, even my own banality shine like a thousand suns trying to outdo each other.

Arms akimbo, I stop and survey creation, breathe deep, and ride a sparkling crescent of light back to the office, remembering just enough to know that this will shine through again and again; the peaks will get closer and closer together until finally there is continuity in what has been here all along:

Just

This.

Eternity.