The finger pointing at the moon

Is not the moon

The greatest transfer of wealth, from each person to a greedy dragons lair, happens constantly, and it's not even money being hoarded. 
Thought is being traded for belief, a questioning mind is being exchanged for one calcified with conclusions.  This is the daily trade, the real stock market.  I can ask a simple question to illumine my point.
Is there a president?
An illaborate, hyper-surreal, circus of enending talk says that indeed, there is a president, chosen by and representative of the people.
I hear all that talk, but I don't see one. All I see is a system, a many masked machine with a repetitive and predictable nature. 
I see a smoking, shuddering train of thought, tearing down the bumpy roller coaster tracks here in this vast circus. I'll call this very popular ride "the soul sucking whiplash disaster".   It jerks its passengers in every direction until all the sense is shaken out of them.  It spins like a giant washing machine, bleaching the originality and intelligence out of its dizzy riders.
The numb shock caused by hanging on to its constant violence, in search of reason, leaves each person stupefied enough to believe absurdity, to agree with utter nonsense.
This is the pattern, the constant ruling dictator/terminator, not one man, never one man.  Surely a man is regularly selected and placed like a fog machine in this strobe lit dance of obfuscation, but that man is just smoke for the mirrors.

Here I am making wise use of my inheritance, and not trading free thought for the hypnosis of an outer "truth".
That outer truth is one of consensus, or of compromised experts, perhaps of historical misunderstanding, or even a sinisterly placed lie, dressed and generally accepted as truth.
Each definition is like a tiny flag marking conqured land.  The clear and well traveled path to each learned conclusion is felt as safe conquest, the acquisition of intellectual property, an education.
This, in zen tradition is referred to as mistaking the finger pointing at the moon, for the moon itself. 
In effort to end the confusion over this folly, let us look directly at the moon.  If perceived, this one change can flood your life with renewed mystery, vaporizing the absurd ego of authoritarian materialism from your radiance. 
The moon is occasionally present in the blue sky of day, retaining its current phase of waxing or waning.  Looking up and out at it, we now turn our attention to the Sun, which is up as well.  The earth where you stand is not at that moment in between those two heavenly bodies, is it?  It is daytime and both are above your head, so the earth cannot be casting a shadow on the moon, for you and the earth are not standing in between them, yet the moon retains its crescent.  Something obscures its fullness, but it is not the earth's shadow.
You are looking into a realm of light, how could a shadow exist there? 
The sun shines its light, as does every star in the night sky, and the moon is clearly not reflecting the sun's light or shadowed by the earth. It is also shining its own light.  What causes its waxing and waning is a mystery that must for now be left as such, for we have just freed it from the shackles of mans "false witness" and if we cannot bear to allow its existence to go a moment undefined, then we really need to relax.
If you have come this far, we are now beyond the many paths, we are in a wilderness of thought, a silence speaking volumes.  This wilderness is inhabited by beings of greater strength and sharper sense, who perhaps with scorn see man as a perpetual tourist, withholding the respect a home deserves.  These others, wether damp haired in a deep forest or efemerally soaring above the clouds to land inside a mountain abode, perhaps remember man as something better, cognizant of his place within a larger plan.
I would wish nothing more for each of you than that the mystery of a thousand pyramids wash over your mind, redeeming wonder into your daily landscape, for this is the realm, unscathed by words which we truly inhabit.
Wonder is the greatest wealth, without which the richest man is a lustful beggar. 
The supremely wealthy have captured the mystery schools, to place ribbons and medals upon each other's soft bosoms, and recite axioms realized by long gone wise men that they would hate if they ever met.
They suffer the paradox of having all the time to wonder, but no ability to do so.  Wonder like a descending dove lands on the shoulder of the poor and deserving, for no great power is a fool, or beholden to fools.
It will always come down entirely to you.  There is a deep and cosmic need for you to puff your chest out, and stand a little taller.
There is something essential in you disproving the obvious lies of fraudulent men.  There is also rest here in the bosom of life itself, your birthright.
Think about it.