The middle way. It is the only way. It is the only pathway that your feet should tremble upon. With unadulated remarkability. Without any offerings of prayer to a deity that does not exist in any level of corporeal form.

The pathway is demonstrably difficult to find. There are no summits to escalate to that do not draw the mind away from the present. Distractions abound along the way. Ever erring and pulling away from the disguise of divinity.

The middle way is not marching. The middle way is not trumpet finger hallucinations with the barricade of breath. The middle way is not a celestial summit you can yearn to achieve with the solid circumference of feet. There is no glowing eidosphere where you will simply find an escalation into eternal emancipation of serendipity.

The middle way is between all of the obstacles, all of the reverberations of unkindness, flowing up though the sporadic gunas. The middle way is surrounded by both light and dark, but both trepidation and serenity. It is calmness in the midst of a prevailing storm. There is no summit to be reached. There is no valley to reside in. It is a simple plateau of untethered form. You would never find it. You would only ever be it. If you surrendered into the disallocation of less. There is nothing less than nothing more. There is only detachment from everything you would discover, not discover, uncover, not uncover, design and find, not design and find.

The middle way. It is everywhere and nowhere at all. Except in places in between everything else, where the mind is still, the focus is steady, and you are universal likeness. A mirror for eternity. This is the middle way. Vacancy forever, longing never. No more aspirations. No more trepidations. Only insular lightness of being, and external transfiguration, engagement into a complete and utter reticence.

The middle way cannot be found. It can only be. And being is without becoming. It is only knowing. And knowing is without recognition. It is only relentless absorption into inert stillness of the mind. It is never ending. It is only beginning.

Fall away from the precipice where you would devolve into trepidation for the feet. Tip toe over the edge without intention. There will be no volume of weight to harness you down, to bellow you up. There will only be enraptured stillness of the soul, and limitless expansion of the mind into places where the soul would no longer weep with insecurity.

This is the middle way. It does not exist. It does not not exist. It is the eternal metronome of the dancing feet, in unison, patiently awaiting deliverance, without any expectation, without any realization of anything other then serenity.

Do not relent into passion. It is passion that would override compassion. And with compassion there would arise, without integration, simple passivity. And with passivity there, in the internal, eternal, interwoven vines of peaceful floral deliverance would you, without effort or attempt, simply exist within the middle way.