Nothing's a gift

Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan.

I'm drowning in debts up to my ears.

I'll have to pay for myself

with my self,

give up my life for my life.

Here's how it's arranged:

The heart can be repossessed,

the liver, too,

and each single finger and toe.

Too late to tear up the terms,

my debts will be repaid,

and I'll be fleeced,

or, more precisely, flayed.

I move about the planet

in a crush of other debtors,

some are saddled with the burden

of paying off their wings.

Others must, willy-nilly,

account for every leaf.

Every tissue in us lies

on the debit side.

Not a tentacle or tendril

is for keeps.

The inventory, infinitely detailed,

implies we'll be left

not just empty-handed

but handless too.

I can't remember 

where, when, and why

I let someone open

this account in my name.

We call the protest against this

the soul.

And it's the only item

not included on the list.

Wislawa Szymborska

Myself

I do not feel myself expanded as all that is, 

A part of everything, and everything a part of me. 

Nor do I feel myself as "That" within which all appears,

The Absolute, everything arising within me.

I do not feel "myself" at all.

Unless, by "I" you mean...

This. 

Not a thing alive,

But... Aliveness Itself.

Formless Aliveness in samadhi,

Or Aliveness in form...

Show me that place, where one ends, 

And the other begins?

Show me that place,

Where "This" begins and ends?

One thought of "I"...
and Heaven and Earth are divided!

Chuck Surface