Not Fully Responsible (Sleepy Samskaras Run Deep)

Not fully responsible, or NFR.

Close to NFG, but that would be by those quite blind-stricken by the true events of the evening; those with a short memory or rather a lack of depth in things of the heart and spirit.

Some, but not all of those, would also be the first in line to call me a rambler; long with the pen and short with the facts. And in response to those, sigh; I can only give the facts; and those through the personality I am cloaked with.

Yes, it was my decision to run the mountain trail, with its quail and rivulets and Blair Witch sensibilities. Running from the open woods to the wet shrouded blanket of quiet life under the canopy, to the radio tower with its oblique warnings and buzzing hydro wires running east and west down the mountain.

Yes, it was my decision to eat at double speed o'er the years; well resourced in what a healthy adult should eat all that time - still, I chose the dollops of butter and mayo and fatty bits from the steak in lieu of greens and crisp apples and sweet rich yams, full of the stuff my body needs.

Why then NFR? Because sleepy samskaras run deep. No matter the progress, all I have to do is sit in a business meeting or a concert and let the lids fall to half mast. The mind follows suit, and the ghosts drop their gauzed, gilded blankets around my shoulder, sit down with popcorn and watch their show.

In those situations it is usually desire for unity with a loved one, so strong my body literally contracts in its presence, only able to emit a kind of wail through the heart.

Today, it's not a mental but a physical tiredness that has set in; that's come up from the rich wet ground, impaled itself via the roots and rocks that gave a little pain as a hint; splashed up from the brown cloudy puddles; washed away by the rivulets both heard and felt, only to return on the next technical climb, jump, or pulse-raising move upward.

The pulse has settled now, down from 180 to 130 as, Radio tower behind me, I walk slowly back and forth, hoping the blood-sugar will kick in.

But before it can - or perhaps because it did - i am impaled with light from five points and pulled apart.

It simply Is in the heart. This is not the world of logic, geometry, dimensions and time. There's no starting point or ending point. It is simply there in the heart. Wording it here is like trying to catch your reflection in the wind; nonsensical and impossible. Still, there's some value felt in the heart, and so the description continues:

It explodes through the legs, carrying them deep into the ground where they wrap around roots and rocks and minerals' grace.

It explodes through the arms, winding them around the hydro towers and trees and my fingers are the wet and dripping pine connecting the rivulets up mountain with the scaled bulbous food sources sea-side

It launches my head on a braid of gold through the clouds, through powder and dark blues to the carpet of stars that shower down around the senses like buzzing flowers, rooting themselves in god's bookshelves on their way down to earth. And then like fireworks the senses themselves arc and depart, leaving long trails of light behind them; hearing and heard; seeing and the seen; tasting and the tasted; feeling and the felt; smelling and the smelt

Awareness begets its ten thousand children. Deep in the ground, or dancing with supernovas, or running with river rocks towards a saline economic system. Or walking arm-in arm with the rambler with his too many thoughts and too many words and with *that* recognition his contraction

into to the runner heading back into the woods, and the rivulets and mud and puddles and strange echoes; realizing how Not Fully Responsible is just a pointer, a taste to the One-ness. How can there be volition or responsibility where there is no 'I'?

Maybe it's just too many words rambled out, which are in fact the perfect amount of words, when their source is recognized

as no-thing.

Namaste.