Strange Vaudeville

Strange vaudeville, this.

I walk through the market, wearing my hypocrisy like a warm vest, leering at the all the fodder that will end up in the suburbs tonite in the closets of Those That Cannot See, while secretly coveting bauble that *clearly* should be coming home with me.

I'm different of course. I see through the materialism, know the sharp teeth of desire will only be sated temporarily by a purchase. And because I know this I am immune to Samskara's wheel in a way that Those That Cannot See couldn't possibly understand.

Until grace hops out from a merchant's stall and breaks me open like an egg.

Fluid and purposeless, I am looked. And walked. Things are purchased for a loved one's birthday, but the gift I am given is far more sublime:

The realization that there is no difference between whatever is living me and Those That Cannot See. Understanding that the act of identifying a 'me' and a 'them' is about as meaningful as trying to paint the ocean: going out with a five gallon bucket, dipping my roller and painting wave after wave after wave.

And with that quickening of grace, incandescence grows around me - Brand Name Stores, Bathroom Signs, even my own banality shine like a thousand suns trying to outdo each other.

Arms akimbo, I stop and survey creation, breathe deep, and ride a sparkling crescent of light back to the office, remembering just enough to know that this will shine through again and again; the peaks will get closer and closer together until finally there is continuity in what has been here all along:

Just

This.

Eternity.