How can words ever be as exact as you would have them be?
So much can be mislaid or misinterpreted in any translation.
* * * *
A big factor in mortal existence is your ability to endure your own suffering,
And your response to the suffering throughout your translation of the world.
* * * *
A garden world chock-full of two-leggeds,
Many believing they are the pinnacles of normal,
All judging their naughty-nice translation from on high.
Who can ever measure up for long, if at all?
* * * *
To what are you ultimately attached but the conditioning
Of a mind each and every moment consuming, translating, a sensory feed,
Through the filters of a time-bound frame of reference inspired by the given nature-nurture.
* * * *
What you discern, what you glean, from your world, from your universe,
Is but a reflection of the frame of reference, the filter, doing the translating.
* * * *
Life is an ever-changing universe, a convoluted maze with many, many doors.
You wander through the halls of your mind’s translation, your imagination’s rendering.
Some doors open, some do not; some open easily, some never at all; some open now, but not later;
Some are locked now, but open later; and some, many, most, never will.
Each mind has its fate, but only looking back.
* * * *
You peruse these many thoughts,
But how you translate them
Is entirely based on the frame of reference
Through which your time-bound mortal dream timelessly filters.
* * * *
In the play of space-time, why would, why should, how could,
Anyone ever live their life according to some translation,
Other than the one their sensory dream imagines.
* * * *
Every organism under any given star has a completely different translation of the universe.
Which begs the question, is there even a real universe that stands alone and true?
Or are all nothing more than unique, arbitrary quantum creations,
Done and undone and done again times beyond counting.
Light dancing it’s Self manifest, for whatever forever dreamtime allows.
* * * *
There appear to be many others of every imaginable variety,
But it is all really truly the awareness you very much alone are,
Translating the sensory play as the ever-present now unfolds.
The singular you, chattering away to your Self, so to speak.
* * * *
It is only imagination that feels happy or sorry or anything else, for its imaginary self.
Imagination ever-translating the ever-streaming sensory perceptions
Into endless shades of emotional gratification.
How can the timeless awareness prior to consciousness,
Feel anything for the still emptiness from which it springs eternal?
* * * *
It is the awareness of the light within that shines out upon the world, upon the universe,
But it is consciousness that invents your version, your account, your interpretation,
Your translation, your rendition, your exploration, your understanding, your conclusion,
Of all the myriad experiences that come and go within the sensory perception of the given vessel.
* * * *
These many thoughts mean to me whatever they mean to you.
All translation is filtered through the conditioning of the beholder.
* * * *
Rarely is anything not diminished or lost in translation.
* * * *
Within any aphorism is a pregnancy of meaning for those who translate deeply.
* * * *
What point words and numbers that do not translate into daily living?
* * * *
How can any translation be anything but subjective?
* * * *
Is faith anything more than dread translated into the delusion of hope?
* * * *
All translations are dubious harbors.
* * * *
What is any given ditty but wandering through one experience or another,
And then writing about it for others to translate as their given wit allows.
* * * *
Always interesting to see how these many ditties play out as they come to mind:
As they are first written down, what happens in translation when they are transcribed,
What happens when they are edited, how they are read, if they even are read.
Any given ditty can mutate into something very different at any stage
From the original thought first bubbled into consciousness.
* * * *
An entirely original creation, a gift for the future to translate, or not.
It is not a crystal ball; just a variety of ponderings from a guy
Who feels called to scribble down the random thought.
Art is its own reward.
* * * *
When thought is understood to be vibration,
There is the potential to discern, to discover,
The movement need not translate into identity.
* * * *
Every ear, every mind, its own translation.