Consciousness Itself

Consciousness itself:

there’s only a few themes that I write of, really maybe only one, consciousness, and much like the subject itself, there’s infinite means of its expression. I never tire of writing on this matter, always someway inspired to just sit and listen, allowing the subtle voice heard just before dawn to speak to me through silence and birdsong, wind and rainfall, whatever it is that needs to be told each morning. My writing is simply an extension of this, no matter what theme, or subject it seems to be — it’s always, consciousness itself speaking through me.

only this.

it could just as easily be called awareness, or life, even God for that matter, it all being the same to me, and there’s no labels involved in the actual listening. When I hear a song note from the first call of a bird outside my window it’s the seamless sound of morning, consciousness itself, and only differentiated by any thoughts that follow after. At first listen, there’s just the morning speaking through the various means of its expression, and if I’m quiet enough, listening, I become involved in conversation, belonging as truly as a birdsong, seamless too in my expression.

consciousness itself…

speaking,

listening,

writing.