The great soul, the source, and God
taken from I, FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM: a soul's soliloquy, from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book
When finally you encounter the Great Soul, you will not hesitate to call it I. You are the source of all things. All of it. Like the root-stock of a great underground rhizome, when you stick your head finally out of the ether, whoever is around you ...is you.
Everything is consciousness. There is no inside looking out, there is only attention; where the self falls into the great vat of nothingness, and yet Being remains complete. It is a stillness without walls, as life blows through you, and you are a gust.
You look out onto the world as if you are in a house looking out through a window, and indeed there is a window, but ...there is no house. There is only one wall, and no roof, and everything flows over and around that wall, so there is neither inside nor out. In fact, there is not even one wall, only a window, and there isn't even that, only a place which moves in the wind, and is the wind, blowing and being blown, with nothing to block or prevent it, and nothing which might enclose it, or hold it, or make it say 'I'.
You are neither the projector nor the screen, not even the spectator watching. Poor you. You are nothing.
Oh, let me tell you- when God's great and ghastly eyes are finally inside of you, then shall you be still. As still as death. Get it?
In that austere event- when the self is only 'I', or even less than that, perhaps as nothing- it is then that I become the all, and more than the all, and continually more and more than that.
For there is only one soul, and not two, and our love is its love, our hate is its hate, and our life is it living. It is us- we are it. So there is nothing left to do.
When you become the All, everyone and everything pertains to you: every thought, every dream, every love, sorrow, truth, lie, life, and death. You are not separate. You are everything.
Stretched out and through that spiral void, you will not again disappear like a ghost, or worse- a real thing, ever haunting our lost world's home.
When you have paid back all you owe to creation- that alone is when you have the right to disappear. The privilege. The honor. To vanish. To fly.
It must have something to do with karma or its absence, if I understand the word correctly, and to be sure I do not. For the word is the word, and the thing is the thing, and the mind is the lie in between them.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.