JOHN MCINTOSH
A bedraggled homeless man walks along the quaint but exclusive side-streets of a prestigious shopping/dining area. His hair is matted, his sneakers mismatched the salvage of endless garbage pickings. His shoulders droop and his face is blank, empty, deeply tanned and leather-like revealing the years of sleeping outside, subsisting moment to moment. A few feet away and across the street a row of shinny high-end automobiles are parked beside a trendy restaurant. Customers dine outside, dressed in garments and jewelry costing more than most people’s annual income. They chat making dramatic gestures with their faces and hands as they describe the important stores that define their lives.
The homeless man is an annoying fixture in the tiny cloistered community of the privileged, ignored along with other nearby street people, except when the show of charity lends favor with their friends and associates. Consciousness wears many masks, one more convincing than the next. The empty hopelessness of the homeless is no more poignant than the hollow existence felt by those possessing everything the world can offer but still, when alone in silent shadows the quiet desperation that it all means nothing persists.
Suffering wears many disguises from the hallowed halls of opulence to the frigid fear surrounding the hospital beds of the dying and into the endless corridors of so-called ‘normal life’, hearts ache and minds lie in chaos and conflict while the attempt to hide from the inevitable Light of Truth fails to prevent ITs penetration through the cracks of humility that eventually ensue as each one finds their way to their knees. Such is the enormous blessing of the ONE Love we All Are, losing IT SELF in dreams and then finding IT SELF when fulfillment can no longer be found in illusions.
BOOKS by John McIntosh
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