Made of ocean
Maybe I’m made of ocean,
having always considered myself an island,
the probable cause of so much suffering,
assuming this loose but utile
congregation of aggregates
constitutes a trustworthy place to stand –
solid, apart, enduring; ever looking outward
in the wrong direction.
Maybe I’m made of Infinite Ocean,
no room for this tiny dab of me anywhere;
with lonely suffering the sole root and result
of my imaginary, separate existence.
O child of God, Meher spoke of the Ocean of Love.
Take the plunge and drown.