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Poem: Who is the painter on the empty canvas?

Why seek to understand an endless puzzle of memories, conditioning, trauma, thoughts, problems to solve?


Why? Why even ask why?


When a better solution is to seek for


What am I?


So we sooner or later realize that we are the emptiness from which all things rise and fall away and rise.


Full stop.


A little glimpse from the Sky.


Here, the past is nothing but a dream.


Here, trauma and tension in the body dissolve


Because there is no one to entertain it.


Here, you are safe, fearless,


Here, even death leaves no traces.


Home inside your self


The past is like an old painting.


The future an empty canvas.


For which you are the current painter.


So, let all your habits and thoughts and fears and agitations and frustrations and hopes and dreams and doubts and lies and concepts


Pop.


Like soap bubbles.


Look beyond them into the silence of your Heart.


And let this bright clarity that you find there


Be the one that makes the art.


Where there is no need to be clever.


Where there is nothing to outsmart.


No techniques for manifestation.


A full surrender to being painted.


By the subtle guidance of love.


By being one with the creator.

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