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Karnamrita Das

Earth, Fire, Water, Air, and Ether photo TA0468_zps9e4fe3ed.jpg
Who are we really—
beyond who we settle for
without thinking too deeply
as most just blindly accept
as normal, conventional identities
that we’ve learned from others
and from our educational system
so it must be true, right?

Is it really a fact that
we’re our past sad or happy history?
What about our genes, race, ethnicity,
our skin color, occupation,
economic status, religious
institution, sect, or sanga,
state or region, political party,
conservative or liberal bend,
or our nationality or home planet—
do they accurately define us?

What about our sexual proclivity,
desires, likes and dislikes,
skeletons in our closet,
what we hide from ourselves
and project upon others,
who we are for or against,
who we hate or love?
Becoming compassionate for the plight of the soul photo TA0466_zps02bf4b2f.jpg
What about our cherished
attachments or repulsions
or uncontrolled compulsions
in so many varieties of food,
clothes, clicks, cars, people
smells, sports, stars, movies?

Are we kulis, disciples of…?
mayavadis, aparadhis, sahajiyas,
matajis, papajis, prabhujis,
youths, old guard, dinosaurs,
fringy, mingy, or springy types,
fixed up or pure devotees?

Are such labels who we are,
or accurate and completely true?
And how should we be known
or superficially evaluate others
from atop our judgmental mountain
or do we take someone else's label
either fairly or with contempt
having never spent time
with them, or truly being a friend?

Or are we something more:
how we have lived our lives
the character we have developed
kindness, compassion, love, wisdom,
what we have given, or held back
to pursue our dreams or just
trying to stay alive and eat
drinking beer in front of the T.V.?

Then on our death bed
we wonder what it was all about,
what we have to show for our life,
again full of questions or regrets
curious as to what to take shelter of
when everything is now stripped away—
what is left or remains when we die?
 photo 10_zpso42zr2lb.jpg
Why do we live?
Why do we die?
Why anything?
Why is thinking
asking questions?
Why do we think
there are no answers?

We tell our kids
to stop asking
because we have
no answers—
we want them to
just grow up
and live like we have
accepting a pointless
life, waiting to die.
Always a possibility of exiting photo 3_zpspuvncfpg.jpg
O, The Blessing or Curse of a life
of an indeterminate number of years
counted by breathes and heartbeats
by a system we can’t fathom
unless the Universe, God, Creator,
a Power greater than ourselves
reveals it beyond merely biology.

As to the purpose of living
there’s so many opinions,
theories, dreams, projections
depending on our belief or faith
about our Source or its lack,
whether life is meaningless
other than to reproduce offspring
or is full of meaning and purpose
above the flesh, beyond our breath,
to understand what’s consciousness
or the eyes behind our eyes
that we sense exists forever.
Birth and Death, or Cosmic recycling photo TA0467_zps9acb608a.jpg
Beyond the modes photo TA0503_zps45388be8.jpg