Just Another Story

Your completeness is right here in front of you within your grasp, but you’ll never truly be mindful of this until you realize it’s not a story that’s needed, it’s what’s already here.

Without inner silence, it’s very unlikely one will have the mindfulness needed to not create your stories. Even this writing is a story of how not to create stories, but the mindfulness of writing it helps to minimize the attachment to it and thus once it’s written it’s complete. Non attachment is always the key. A story can always be added to, but once something arises ask yourself, is this the end of the story or not? That will depend on how one relates their “I” identity to the story. The more “I” needs the story for its identity, the more “I” attaches to it and the more a story is needed. This is the merry-go-round of the Conditioned Mind. No attachment, no needed story, no needed story, no discontentment of what isn’t, so all you are left with is what is, not the story of it, but the actual reality of what is happening now.

Story after story after story. The story of how I feel, or the story of what I think, or my life’s story, there is an endless creation of stories, that is until one becomes mindful enough that the story teller and the story are seen as one in the same. Being with what is instead of a created story will be the most difficult thing one when ever do in their life, but it will also be the most fulfilling lesson you will ever learn. Just be in the silence of what is, attach nothing and nothing will be needed. Imagine that, needing nothing to be happy, joyous, and free and understanding that you’re complete just as you are. It’s right there within your grasp, it’s right in front of you, but you’ll never truly be mindful of this until you realize it’s not a story that’s needed, it’s what’s already here.

Michael Cupo
Clark, Nj , United States Of America

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My great grandfather was a Slave

My grandfather was a Native

My grandmother was a Bantu

My mother was a kaffir, Nigga, Negro

Names imposed by shackles

But an Afrakan I am

An identity my forefathers were deprived of

 

An identity I am now polluting with the fumes of cigarettes

In dope I am giving it another face

In ecstasy I am giving it a comical image

My drunken stupor gives it an unstable belonging

My borrowed accent contradicts what it represents

My imitated dress code conceals its beauty

My adopted religion undermines my intellectual prowess

My language deafens my ancestors

My values are valueless

My mind is discriminatory

It repels anything indigenous

Whilst absorbing all that is alien

None can identify with me

Even those I am emulating

Patriotism I reserve for my kind

I look down at my patriots

If I were xenophobic

I could have been my own victim

I pride myself in my slanted inferior education

An education promptly deleting my true history

Ignorance is my custom

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I am singing praise songs for my dying culture

I am branding a heritage

I cannot inherit

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But suppressed by fear

Fear to develop my culture and identity

Fear to be rejected by the world

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Yet with no identity I remain

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