Five Minutes to Now

Five minutes to now Hugo Spyros thought he had boarded a train, or was it the ghost of that Hugo Spyros who was having this thought now? Whichever it was, the version that sat here watching the rain drops first hit and splatter, then gently crawl down the window, couldn't help but get the ominous feeling that he was bound for some fresh hell.
     He re-focused on the now and his sensations like the various meditation teachers he'd encountered along the greater journey had taught him. No past, no future, only now. So easy to get caught up in all kinds of illusions, from the mundane consensus reality to the sectionable. He found it to be an hilarious paradox in the mass shared illusion that seeing beyond this was considered sectionable. That was insane!
     Practising this self observation technique had helped to induce awakening in him a few times, but only for short periods. He didn't feel enlightened right now, his own internal prison warden keeping him down, in the dark. Taunting him that he was never going to get back there again so why even bother. This physical departure he was here embarking on was an attempted escape from carrying on with that very escapology if the truth be told. Truth had been told, instead of lying to himself and others, for a little while before his losing faith in it.
     Deep down of course he knew that giving up was futile. Failure to complete the mission and
transcend the earthly matrix would only result in more matrix, more fresh hells of endless dukkha birth, sickness, ageing, death, suffering for him and all. There was no quitting the game. One had to work out one's salvation and liberation from the cycle, win the way out. No get out of jail frees.
     In his everyday life Hugo felt that his game was hindered by his cannabis and nicotine addictions, keeping him in a rut of routine same day every day trance, so he was seeking to take his physical body to another space and time location. He was comforted by the knowledge that he was not alone in having experienced such awakening and insights, though the majority of these others to have done so also appeared equally unable to adequately convey this to others - likewise soon starting to lose memory of it themselves back into the collective amnesia.
     How to proceed once awakened was where he'd got stuck. When Hugo had reached there he'd got frustrated that unable to dream up a collective shift into a happy and peaceful new age, or undream politicians, bankers, animal and human abusers. On awakening to being dreamer of a dream he should, in theory, have been able to lucidly dream a new dream to will. But this wasn't necessarily his own dream that he had awoken in, he'd gone on to realise, but everyOne's. Hence best option instead to just accept it as is, not try to change it. To allow all to be free and just be true to his own dream character in it. The music the kid sat across from him was listening to on his headphones was too loud, but he abided it.
     For a time whilst he was awake he had been elevated above it, not getting caught up in the illusion, yet spontaneously serving this, and the others of the illusion, better than ever in truly seeing all as not other but one, all of the one dream. The schizophrenia came only when that was forgotten. Asleep, awake, asleep... Schizophrenic, mystic, schizophrenic... Broken, healed, broken... Derailed off his spiritual path by perceiving a broken heart - and spirit. Self inflicted schizo shit!
     In actuality that was bullshit as Hugo had always been whole, or at least had been prior to the train having hit him. After that bits of him were all over the tracks getting rained on, part illuminated by the flashes of blue lights of the ambulance advancing towards the station.
     Was it only hell bound for suicides or could they be allowed heaven also? Or getting neither, just to keep going round on the ghost train again and again - as a hungry ghost. Like at times he had been hungry for a soul mate partner, another half to share the trip with, Hugo hungered
now for a spliff. Now he was in mental bits, but an all intact physical self again - heart not split in two nor body scattered into pieces, suicided. Just undecided what he was doing, or wanting to do, with this human life. No idea where this train of thought, or the train he was on, going. It appeared to be in another tunnel.
     A lighter at the other end of it, he hoped, and some tobacco and papers he could purchase
too if he got off at the next stop, to roll up the bud of dank weed he'd discovered in his hooded jacket's pocket before he continued his endless journey. Hell avoided for now, even if heaven and nirvana were unlikely to be found on Southern Rail.