36
Truth is not comfortable
For those not comfortable with truth.
It has a way of becoming a lie when lost in translation.
80
Where is the center of the universe, if not you?
At least in your imaginary translation, anyway.
84
It is through the play of consciousness that godness
Witnesses your translation of manifest dreamtime.
The many mythological stories explaining creation
Are simply tales attempting to explain the inexplicable.
How unfortunate so few are interested, much less capable,
Of perceiving beyond the attachment to one identity or another.
What an eternal garden this world might be if idealism was set aside
And wisdom and insight gained sway in this theater of human invention.
125
Who was the real Jesus?
Everyone has a unique translation,
But no one can ever know the living-breathing man,
Long dead, long gone, nothing more than an idol, a figment in any mind,
As are we all.
200
There is an infinite eternal immensity
In the inner sanctum to which you alone have access,
To which words cannot help but be caught by the limitations of translation,
By the capacity for discernment of any given listener’s ear.
208
The writer knows what is being written, but what are you reading?
The speaker knows what is being expressed, but is that what you are hearing?
Everything you see and touch and hear and feel and smell, is but a temporal, arbitrary translation
Of the subjective nature-nurture mind-body in which the sentience of awareness harbors.
The witness before which creation is filtered through the caprice of imagination.
The observer is never the observed, the observed is never the observer.
True objectivity is an impossible ideal, an unreachable brass ring,
Which even science can never more than pretend to attain.
220
Death will merely be the finale to your unique translation of history.
223
Facts need not be translated as romantic or ethereal notions.
303
How can it be anything more than streaming sensation?
The eyes, the ears, the nose, the tongue, the skin,
Are nothing more than nerve endings channeling into the brain,
Which every moment imagines a conditioned translation of what is called a universe.
A solitary dream of consciousness, awareness playing its Self real,
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
324
You already are the eternal life.
For what is there to pray?
What need for some imaginary god?
You alone translate creation into heaven or hell.
357
All translation must be observed with a dubious, discerning eye,
Especially the interpreter, the sorter, the filter, in your own inured mind.
Everything you perceive translates through the biases of your frame of reference:
Entirely subjective, entirely slanted, entirely unique, entirely idiosyncratic, entirely alone.
Step back from your conditioning, and realize from the dispassionate view of the quantum matrix,
That your entire existence from womb to grave is all nothing more than the huff and puff of imagination.
464
Talk to anyone as much as you please,
It is up to them to listen as sincerely as possible,
To get the truest, most viable translation.
It is about inquiry, not dogma.
490
What is memory but electrical impulses whizzing down neural trails?
What is emotion but biochemical secretions oozing through membranes?
It is imagination’s translation of sensation that navigates any given existence.
499
What is any history but what some storyteller’s imaginary frame of reference,
Coupled with the translation of your frame of reference.
Very dubious from the get-go.