I remember. I remembered before the stillness, before the veils were parted, before everything that was merely what was construed as a dreary burnished glint coming from somewhere yet no somewhere was to be found.
In the quietus Life is … as Grace and Mercy are.
I remembered how it felt to have had no feelings, to have tasted Life whilst being in an diamond casket, to have lived histories, mine, theirs … and the worlds. It seemed as if it was neither a fable, nor a true story being re enacted, as if it was then, mine to begin with. To question Truth is not the ideal instead one should ask whereforth the journey will take … for the destination, when not decently notched, is as wavery as breath itself.
You think you are alive because you breathe?
She begged me to not return, but I laughed.
Within, I would have stayed had I not uttered those words. One can’t simply erase words escaped into the air. It returns back to the Source, somewhere … there. I remembered the elemental dot, the seed encapsulated, the whole.
Death, is noble and generous in spirit. Each moment she apportions glances, and glimpses of the future, through the pasts we often have forgotten, not because we wanted to, but because it was easier to not recollect the future.
We rarely remember that first breath yet we say we are living, conscious of everything yet most of us, can’t even for Faust’s sake remember what we had for supper last month at such, a such time, at such, such occasion unless we’ve jotted it down in a blog, a diary, or stored memories in a flash drive hung around our necks. Even then we oftentimes misplaced these, and easily erase the past at a click of a button.
How convenient to not remember until one needs to return for the limitless skies is still a sky, names are still names, and forever becomes tediously a very long time.
In the Darkness spring all forms and until one has burrowed through to comprehend the nature of Light itself and living the essence, one will insistently gape only at forms transuding what seems, like a glimmer … of light.
There are many levels — Veil upon veils, Light upon lights, but only one, Life.
One should learn how to dive even if one is a prodigal mathematician — be mindful for each breath reverbs to a ripple in the non-thingness of creation, only to revert anew, in the epicycle of the living, as a seed, the dot beneath the Alef, breathing the cube in stilled meditative contemplation — a pilgrimage.
Every single imagery paints a new sunset, a new dawn.
“The Silk Road, Series” Featured Image courtesy and copyright Vasily Kosivtsov
1/. Musée de l’Orangerie