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The Taking off Point

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  • dick.richardson@rocketmail.com
    The Taking off Point The taking off point, or the moment of exodus. I often wonder how many people are longing for home, and while not even knowing what home
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 8, 2010
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      The Taking off Point

      The taking off point, or the moment of exodus. I often wonder how many
      people are longing for home, and while not even knowing what home is or
      where it is, or even if it is. When we come into this world we do it
      as a baby don't we. Well, no, not always. I came into this world at
      the age of twenty four. Have you ever done that? If not then you are in
      no position to speak of it are you. It was very strange.

      But, where we know `nothing of this world' it came into my
      understanding that I must now GO. And with that I was GONE. It was not
      a choice; and I did not want to go. I found myself here. Prior to
      going I knew nothing of this place, or even of its existence. But on
      arriving here I was implanted with a lifetime of experiences and
      moments to remember; well, from zero up to twenty four anyway. They
      were good memories. But were they real? Did they really happen or were
      they just implanted memories ad hoc in order to make some kind of
      sense of existing here? How can you have NO memories one second and
      then twenty four years of memories the next second? THIS is the
      dichotomy of Transcendence and then coming here. There are many things
      which one just cannot forget, and that taking off point from HOME heads
      the list of unforgettable moments.

      For about one year after that event I often used to wonder, when sitting
      alone at times and things were quiet, as to whether I was really here at
      all; or as to whether being here was just some kind of implanted dream
      whilst I was still there, at HOME; in eternity. It was just one of
      those things which one could not help wondering occasionally. It was
      not deliberated serious thinking, but more just little pop in thoughts.
      The problem being was that one could never prove it one way or the
      other. Being here and living it here was just as real as was being
      there and living there. Thus, I had to ask myself as to why I was even
      considering if one of them was real and the other not real; for they
      were both real. The only bug-bare to this was that one of them could
      not be questioned, for it was axiomatic, unarguable, irrefutable,
      undeniable, and it was also lovely per chance. But being here could
      indeed be questioned.

      I don't know whether other `mystics' have to go through all
      this or not, for I have never met one that had been through all this;
      leastwise not face to face. And I don't think that I am very likely
      to now in the close of the days. Not that I care. But I sure went
      though this dichotomy to synthesis alone, for twenty years. It seemed a
      long time at the time; and as though it would never resolve. But it did
      all resolved itself eventually; and that was good too. The world is
      full of mystics isn't it. NO ! It isn't.

      They don't even know what a mystic is; they just believe that they
      do, just like they choose to believe so much else nonsense. The world
      of make believe and tears. Why do they do it? Because they are
      looking for HOME, seeking answers to their existence. They feel that
      there is indeed something missing, something lacking, and they feel
      this through a glass darkly yet without knowing, for sure. So
      consequently they fill these holes of understanding with little mental
      pictures and ideas of make believe; or they go seeking guru's for
      answers, and then choose which one to believe in and have faith in. And
      in so doing they do not realise the danger they are putting themselves
      into by doing that. The stuff which will hold them back from moving on.
      And which turns them into book worms, eating the pages as they go for
      life fodder.

      I often wonder as to how many times one takes off from that taking off
      point and sets out on a journey of adventure and discovery. Oh well;
      whatever. But no matter how many times then at least it happens once,
      and that is good. Don't waste it by living in books all day every
      day. For those paper pages are not life fodder. So, anyway, one exodus
      down, how many more to go before freedom of choice on that issue. If
      ever. And if I did then what would I choose? I would choose to exodus
      and go on adventures in time and space. For it is good. It is good to
      have a heart, but you really ought to give it away you know; for that is
      how to live. It makes the whole kit and caboodle work and worth doing.
      There are no substitutes. So, you live for me and I will live for you.

      Do you understand?


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