The Inferiority of Ego: The Stance and Illusion

Kay Hassan

Eureka, Eureka, 

Eureka, Eureka,
Crafting the psycho-dissolving,
Where mysteries and wonders immerse,
In the starry sky,
A stray ego sets sail
on fleeting thoughts,
Across the expanse of the universe.

They say, a projection in trance, figments of complex selves, stuck in a hypnotic dance, like a Hypothesis, yet running through the labyrinth of time,

resistant to demise, hiding behind a thousand stories of triumph and woe, with a constant flow, and ebb: The flow that

man everlastingly had known,

everywhere: The paradoxical truth

of being infinite, nut so much finite in tragedy.

Saints you are, whores you are,

Making hypothesis:

Dream is ego's schizophrenia,

Where Good and Evil united him in sin

You may wander Like a tyrant king,

conquering all within your whim, Or like a humble beggar, crushed on streets

Eager always for a little bite,

have some expectations,

and a little believe in salvation;

Be patient, gentle soul,

It is the grand plan of life's design,

That has me roaming in such a humbling awe,

Amidst the chaos and strife,

Beauty draws wounds

that are lingering on the skins,

Never healing. The craving is never sated, The drive is celebrated, To be loved, adulated, You are a projection of a mind that seeks to find its worth, In a world that sees value in the deeds of birth. Within the model of God

or an angel at least.

Practicing, exercising and Experiencing the spiritual truth, that serves to untangle the paradox of the conscious cogito

Clutching non-being for proof,

Embracing the mystery of untrue stimuli. As you journey on, the universe unfolds its Viscera,

tolerating the misconceptions of our forebears Revealing the vastness and the depth of your reach, on the surface, You witness the birth of stars, And the dance of galaxies, The wonder of black holes, the beauty of nebulae. In such inferior decaying frame of man You see the cycles of life, the birth and decay, The ebbing and flowing of the universe's soul, The energy, the balance of time, the balance of night and day. You embody the power of nature, the force of the trivial elements, The beauty of the earth, the wonder of its inhabitants. As you journey on, you meet other creatures like you, With stories and experiences that are both old and new. You see the variety of life, the richness of diversity, The beauty of uniqueness, the wonder of individuality. At the end, the mystery remains, the paradox sustains the life, And you, dear stray creature, continue your journey, unchained. You embrace the unknown,
The mysteries that reveal the timeless tales of being  

Yet, you are anchored in the centre of the expanding universe.

  Stay true to universe ,

the universe is you.

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A Cuneiform Scribe

Kay Hassan

In a time long past, frozen in the depths of history,

A voice awakens my marble statue,

still and serene,

Whispering secrets of a bygone age,

When wisdoms soared high and carefree,

Across the vast expanse of the hazy universe,

Where truth was a sacred dream to vie for,

And mysteries reigned supreme

"I am a a sorcerer," a voice says, and casts a spell

on my marble flesh, to summoning the ancient spirits, in me: Read a scratch on an ancient gemstone, Made of clay and goddess' urine. "A slate for thy labours, son," He, the Almighty says, When He instated his first king.

The sorcerers, told the story better than prophets did: Kings, the real Satan on Earth,

Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.

Scripts baked in the inferno of his hearth,

Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of time,

The vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay.

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"

O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star.

Let us heed the call, and journey to the ancient land, To delve into the secrets of nonbeing .

And with reverence anatomise the clay tablets scripts, the engraved Codes of kings, and stories they tell.

We see the hands of the scribes, as they etch with ancient tools,

The tales of battles fought, the victories won by kings and fools.

With every scratch of their quills, a new chapter was born,

Inscribed on tablets of clay, the history of the dawn.

And as we delve into the past, we see the lessons it reveals,

In the words of prophets and seers, we hear what wisdom conceals.

A spring of secrets, that flows from the depths of time,

A spring of secrets, that quenches the thirst of being.

So let's seek the secrets of odds,

and bake our souls in the same forge, Without reverence and awe, unfold the truth . In the echoes of past, we Through which we transcribe the divine voice ,

The call to the journey, is quest, To scratch the content of the reverent divine

***

Oh' dear whisperer,

I am still reading the same scratch on the ancient gemstones,

That, made of clay and goddess' urine.

And rehearsing the covenant,

"A slate for thy labours, son,"

He, the Almighty said,

When He instated his king.

Kings, the real Satan on Earth,

Forced the Sumerian fingers to wedge the clay into the first slate.

"Scribe the name of thy LUGAL,

Scribe the name of thy NIN,

Scribe the name of the holly whores,

Scribe the Codes of the kings."

Scripts baked in the inferno of His hearth,

Thus the tablets set sail across the ocean of his time,

The vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the clay,

But now the echo of our once-constructive material

grows distant, and muffled by the din of our daily march,

Oh' dear whisperer, and fellow universe citizen,

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted in me?"

O' fellow scribes, Ye all:

Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star

Scribe the name of thy NIN,

Scribe the names of the famous whores,

Scribe the rulers' vain attempts,

their plans in disarray,

while their actions weighing down

by the un-efficacy's decay,

Scribe in the modern style

And then baked in the inferno of his hearth,

Thus the tablets had set sail across the ocean of his time,

And through the vast chronicle of man's history,

And broke down into the arks of Covenant and holy books.

But scarcely, we hear the echo of the past.

"What have the Almighty's wedges scripted indeed?"

O' fellow scribes: Let's bake our souls in the same forge,

Lest Devil's breath efface the grace of the avenue of fame,

That may last, like marble eyes, till the crashes of the last star

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