This is Not Paradise

Birth is neither miraculous nor divine.
The assuming of flesh is not a “blessed event”.
Birth is the rending of spiritual union.
The painful descent into duality.
The sensation of being “encased” to the point of
suffocation.
The striking realization that we can no longer
extend ourselves
to touch the spans of time and bridges of space.
Only a spark of one’s True Self is ever delivered
into this world.
It’s no wonder that we emerge wailing and
screaming!
Why is it that no one questions the cries of the
newborn?
It is because of the pieces of precarnate memory
that we issue forth into this world with a
banshee’s cry.
The horror of being cleaved in two carries the
wailing from one world, into the next.
If this were an empathic world,
we would know what the newborn is feeling.
We would, ourselves, remember!
But, no ... this is an expressive world.
One in which we must elicit our feelings with cold,
impersonal sounds.
Thus, the newborn speaks its agony
in the way of its new world.
A paean of screams appropriate to the emotion.
As time passes, whatever trace memory remains
is slowly washed away by new thoughts;
The bright, shining images of a colourful
dimension.
The old senses are deprived by the overloading
of new sensations.
Eventually, we adapt to our limited prison
and learn how to work within its narrow confines.
Before long, almost all prebirth recollection
is either deeply suppressed and locked away,
or simply lost forever to the new persona.
Isn’t it ironic though,
that we spend the rest of our little lives
struggling to remember
and striving after who and what we are and what
“IT’s” all about.
We are all trying to ignite an inferno
from that one, single spark that trailed us.
We are all straining for enough “light” to find our
way back home.
We all know that THIS is NOT that place.