The World

The world is dead to me. It is a forgotten spark in a fire with no boundary.

I am none other than that fire.

If you look you can not see me for I am the very looking as it flows and beams through your eyes and your mind's eye.

The world's distress is laughable. It appears only to a pretending one who is ignorant of me. That distressing appearance is not the real.

The real is the looking itself.

The real cradles a beautiful and good little planet called earth. This earth is a gently-peopled shining out of pure love.

Nothing that is is outside of the real.

Any world is the fire that I am.