I seek no other heaven. If this vast wonder-garden is a perfect god’s creation, what improvement would it need? Paradise is paradise, as far as I can see. And if it isn’t perfect, if it happened of itself or is here by some other cause, my judgment of it is bound to share the same imperfection, because I am a part of it. In this garden, the grasses come and the grasses go; the rocks, the birds, the trees; the stars, the sands, the seas. What I call the universe, how I grasp it in my way, is a seductive veil; and what I call my life, is the time it takes to fall away. I demand nothing. I expect nothing. I ask for nothing. I count myself fortunate in being of the grasses, the stars, and seas. I am neither more nor less conscious or necessary than they. I will be them again someday, without the slightest need to know it, as I was before waking to this dream.
June 12, 2020. Late afternoon. Rain.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Birth, Consciousness, Death, Diaries, Gratitude, Heaven, Journals, Life, Paradise