Ah James, Oh James, Poor James… He tried so desperately to become,
to become good,                                      to become infinite,
to become pure,
to become enlightened,
to become God. He carried the universe on his back,
not knowing it was only thought, only dust. Poor James. The infinite became his prison.
He clung to illusions of forever,
and called it truth. He read scriptures.
He tortured himself with effort.
He sat in meditation, not to rest,
but to achieve,
to conquer silence,
to capture the sky. But James forgot: You cannot possess the wind.
You cannot hold the moon in your fist. And the simple truth is this:
Being is already here.
And in Being,
there is no James to become anything. Poor James. He chased the Divine as if it was elsewhere,
not seeing it was his very breath.
He longed for Love,
never knowing creation was made of it. Poor James. And now he stands before the Truth, Empty-handed.
Exhausted.
No more words.
No more masks.
nothing left to hold,
nowhere left to go. And in that poverty,
in that total collapse of “James,”
something shines. Not as James.
Not for James.
But as What Always Was,
Waiting patiently behind the veil. What remained
was not James.
Not God.
Not infinite.                                             Not even silence.                                         Only Being. And Love,
the reflection of Being,
rose like fire,
and burned James alive,
while he still breathed. Ah James, Oh James, Poor James… What burned him left no ashes,
and what remains is rich beyond measure.