In The Twilight

Flying high above the clouds, progress may seem endless, continuous and uninterrupted. Since there are no obstacles in sight, you may come to believe that there truly won’t be any. But look below. There are clouds right beneath you. A slight loss of altitude will bring you into the heart of them, where the sky won’t be visible anymore and the ground will be calling. To slide downwards a bit does not necessarily mean that all is lost, but your machine might say so. It will say: "The downward spiral has begun and there’s no way to break it now. Set your motors towards a total catastrophe!" This is a trick. The machine knows that when you fall, it takes over. It gets to do all the things it likes to do, it can relax, indulge, dream away the moments without turning back. So any excuse will do. A mistake will be an excuse for another, and that one will make the excuse for yet another… and the chain itself will be used to signify that the process can’t be stopped and that you shouldn’t even try.
It is important to come to understand that this is not true. You can stabilize and slide back up. It will seem unnatural. It will seem like something is wrong, something doesn’t fit right, something is flowing the wrong way. All of these statements are literally true.
My old teacher told me a story. A monkey has a handful of peanuts in a jar. As he walks through the forest, bouncing up and down with happiness at his luck, one of the peanuts falls over and is lost in the bushes. When he bends over to try to find it, the jar tips and he lets another one fall. This means further bending and further tipping. Pretty soon, the whole handful of peanuts is lost and he sits crying at his terrible luck. None of it would have happened if he had simply allowed the first peanut to be lost. If he had only let go of that one little peanut.
This story applies to our work in a very direct and practical way. It is not some kind of vague moral teaching. It has to do with our moment to moment shifts in attention. When the machine starts to take over, we will begin to be lost in thoughts, in daydreams, in hard identifications (the kind that come with solid justifications and logical arguments), in emotional pain ready to be attached to the nearest possible cause, in lost desires, in nostalgia for moments that are now only images, in physical pain that presses against your nerves and pulls you down and out of life… this will happen from one moment to the next.
One instant you will be vibrant and clear about what you are doing. The next you will be lost in a complex swamp of identification and stress and pain and desire. When the slide down begins to happen, these two spaces may be about even, one moment for one, one moment for the other. As the machine justifies itself, it will say: "we already lost these 2 moments, we may as well lose another one… and another one now…". If we can release the lost moments and concentrate on the present instant, we can expand our attention through our machine and bring it back to Life. But as long as we punish ourselves internally for the moments that were lost, we will have no hope and the descent will continue.
In the twilight, you must be careful as to what door you step through. Know that the doorways will open and they will lead to places you would much rather not go… but they will be so tempting. The more attractive the doorway, the more you should resist it. Here in this twilight space all offers of rest and pleasure are to be suspected and rejected. Step away from the open doorways. If you have already stepped through, but a foot is still behind, take a moment, breath calmly and step back. This can be done.
AN OPEN REBIRTH DOOR CAN BE CLOSED
It is not easy. It takes a lot of practice. But there is no way to learn to do it other than by actually attempting it. When you step back, there will be a gap, a space of nothingness. The part of you that had already found itself on the other side, the part of you that had already identified with the new world, will call for help, will feel the closing jaws of final death tightening around it. Let it die. Let it dissolve. Step back and let the nothingness replace it until the doorway disappears into the Void once more. Let the nothingness itself become a burning sun in your solar plexus that will lead you back to Life.
You are only in the clouds. You have not truly fallen. Rise up once again. Step back from the inviting doorway and rise. Rise above it. Fly again. Rise.

Chamber of Secrets

It was a clear, sunny, breezy afternoon. There were probably better reasons to be outside, but we were on our way to the pharmacy, the one inside the big hotel that had a lot of medicines and other items imported from the United States. The whole place was covered in slight teasing glimpses of another life, a life far away and drenched in sex, violence and money. I could feel the caress of these visions in the way that man was dressed as he signed up for a room, in the way the bellhops spoke to each other, in the smell of the leather of the sofas in the bar, in the laughter of the people seated in a circle, drinking large glasses of hard liquor and talking very loudly, one of them wearing dark glasses with his arm around a much younger woman wearing a mini skirt, in the cold voice of a tall man giving orders to two guards about their respective positions, in the shiny gold of the handrails that lead up to the hotel rooms upstairs. I felt it and I wanted it, I wanted to be part of it, to be in it, to receive it and become it, to swim in it and let it drown me in its unimaginable pleasures.
We stepped into the pharmacy and my eyes immediately wondered to the newsstand. It was very wide and very tall, full of mysterious magazines I had never seen before. There were some comics but these were not the comics I was used to. They were all in English, the covers screamed sex and violence, they told of stories that had begun before me and would continue after me, stories I would never fully understand and I adored them because of it; because they escaped me, I wanted them more. There were so many that I felt overwhelmed, my eyes shifting quickly from one to another, spotting some familiar characters in very unfamiliar situations, sensing that this was the "real thing", not the imitation I had become used to… here was a chance to touch what had formerly been just a rumor, but where to begin? Which one to pick?
Quickly, before the maid picked up the needed medicines and it was too late. I looked up and saw it.
It was the size of a regular magazine, not the smaller size of a comic. The cover had thick, dark colors, not the bright glossy colors of the comics… it was the color of real blood and not its fake counterpart. And blood is what there was. Lots of it. A large character dressed in red opening a bag full of human entrails and laughing, the pieces of intestine and heart dropping onto the floor along with a broken hand and the remains of a human foot. I looked a little closer. The large man had a long white beard and a tall hat. The large man was Santa Claus. My eyes opened wide. This was a comic book, but it was not like the others. It was so high up that I couldn’t reach it. It was probably not meant for my hands. But neither the maid nor the man behind the counter had any clue about it. For them a comic book was a comic book and they never even looked at the cover. So pretty soon the strange magazine was in my hands and I was breathing intensely, reading the little blurbs that spoke of the mysteries to be found within.
This space, this instant of recognition, surrounded by temptation, closed doors and revelation, was now inside of me. I would now search for it. There was a new "me" that now swam within my inner ocean whose only purpose was to find this space, over and over and over. Search for the place, the special chamber, find it, activate it… search again.
It would now be a comic book store in the suburbs of a faraway city in California, or a little college town turned into a festival of medieval color and strange little rolling dice in Wisconsin, or a lost little book store in the heart of the Basque country in Spain, or a strange web site in the lost backwaters of the Internet, or a little booth covered in flashy covers in the middle of a huge convention specially prepared for others cursed like me. Wherever I may find it. However I may look. I would shift aside and under, let my attention slither out and connect and I would look for it.
And when I did find it, it would only last an instant. It would not be the moment before, it would not be the moment after, when I may or may not have an item in my hands and be ready to pay. It would only be that single eternal instant, when my eyes would land on it, on the cover, on the text, on the voice, on the message, on the color, and I would hear the laughter, and the cars, and the voices, and the golden handrails leading up to the secret rooms where the hidden heart of darkness would finally be revealed. Always one step away. Always just slightly beyond my reach, always alive in its obscurity, infinite and eternal in its insistence on staying one step removed from time, space and form.
And as it would always escape me, I would forever want it more.

Avoidance

Come and bring all your ghostly fears.
Bring them to my feet, for my shrine awaits its sacrifices.
I want them bloody. The pulsing life, once stolen from the sleeping spills upon the golden floor, staining my torn feet with circles of raw form.
With that sacrifice comes this text. These words, pulled forth from my being like stubborn rotten teeth with long tangled roots. The holes go deep and the novocaine has long worn off. There are a dozen things I would rather do…make some lunch, work on a photo, do some internet research…easy things, tasks that come without so much effort, and therefore, are slightly more enjoyable to this temperamental machine. This pleasure whore, willing to sacrifice any gains, any person or space for one moment of pleasure.
This is the witch I face. Her eyes sparkle with the stolen breath of dragons. Their shape ebbs with each subtle gesture, their layered color whispers with familiarity, yet always remain strangely distant.
She aims to trick. She coos that the day is long. Her ventriloquist’s voice reminds me relentlessly that easy tasks can be done first. Lunch is important, and she is hungry. Or perhaps we should rest, or read a book.
But I know, at some point today, I must write. As much as I would like to forget, to hide behind a thick wall of lies that promises pleasure and rest, I cannot. Saving my most dreaded task until the end of the day throws a black stain upon the entire day’s labor. The fear awaits my attention, the dreaded task grows strong with each avoided glimpse. Never fully gone, never completely hidden.
Like black rain clouds on the horizon, their persistent thunder is a constant distraction, and because of this, my attention can never focus on anything else. The simple tasks, the "easier" tasks are not more enjoyable. They are only a piece of the continuing lie. Every action is slightly tainted, a bit more heavy and labored.
Like a persistent tick upon a monkey, the habit of procrastination sucks me of vital blood. By avoiding that which is difficult, it stays within, sitting in my heart like a restless raven, draining me of attention and raw energy with each passing hour.
There is one thing to do. I step to the edge of the cliff. The valley below is black, darker than any I have seen, but this is the heart of my fear. I plunge, head first, directly into the center of this chasm. It is This I avoid, and into This I must fall.
The dark pool of energy opens. I begin shifting words. Fingers begin to type, moving faster, responding to each new thought as it springs forth, faster and faster. It hurts, my neck twinges, my fingers ache. My hands cannot keep up with the sentences that emerge from somewhere inside. I exchange a sentence for a thought. A phrase takes shape.

It is in this space that I may Work. This strangely foreign land that does not grant favors. Each step must be earned. The very road asks for homage, the surrounding trees require my attention. This is darkness that must chosen, to avoid this is to avoid the possibility of change, of Transformation. Do not avoid the spiders, do not jump over the puddles. They are the path, they are its keepers, they are the guides.

A Thousand Years

I have strolled here for a thousand years.
Moving beside these blue mountains like a shadow in hiding,
moving in the darkness to escape my own face.
The mirror is frightening, each glimpse becomes a new horror
of hollowed eyes and flaming hair.
I escape myself at each turn,
and each lifetime piles upon the next.
Piles and stacks, mostly of red and yellow,
but faint sparks of blue shine from the furthest star.
Un-countable, like the bodies of battle,
but these have suffered from sleep.
With each new birth, my image becomes an ingenious disguise.
Like all the others I buried,
the enormity of Darkness always seems to settle upon my skin.
Each pore moves softly to accept the dew,
like a whore with a thousand open mouths, we drink.
We drink the waterfalls that pour from us.
From engraved goblets, the dragons toast their assent,
they curse my fall.
They await my rising.
Laugh at my death.
Dance at my birth.

Perception

I am a girl who feels scared- feeling is a perception.
I am a girl who has white skin- this color is a perception.
I am a girl that likes the taste of cookies-her taste is a perception.
I am a girl who dances- is that what that is?
But, truly, what is this girl?
Not a girl, not a feeling, not a sight, not a taste…everyone perceives these qualities in different ways. Some may like them, desiring to see her again, others may be completely repelled by her smell. At some moments, I may agree and identify with my own perceptions of Self, at other times, I may completely hate them.
And still, this perceived Self, none of these are her. Lydia is not even her name. There is something... what it is cannot be described. To do so would be a voyage into the realm of perception.
The mirror shocks me. Who is that? Well known eyes are not familiar. Everything about this creature is a stranger. And yet, I sleep with it, laugh with it, indulge it with cookies and jewelry. This creature calls itself by the name "Lydia". This creature has an album full of pictures and a thousand memories of being "Lydia".
My mind has left, launched to the outer cosmos- travelling recklessly at brutal speed; and with it have gone my assumptions, my ideas, my preconstructed perceptions. This creature sits at a computer desk, struggling with a heavily beating heart, not remembering, not even knowing if "up and down" exist, if I am alone or cradled. Scared or okay?
None of these words will do, and yet, they seem to be the only language I know. Without perceptions, what is there? Just a huge expanse of nothingness that has no qualities or titles. No tastes or sounds. Maybe there are sounds. Long drones and whistles.
But to experience those would require perceptions…so perhaps, not even sounds accompany this drifter. Is it drifting? It just Is.
Not floating, not dancing, not moving, not rotating, not pulsating, not laughing, not crying, not sucking…its just there…here. And all this seems too much for the creature at the computer to understand…what should it do?
This non-human, non-writer.
This non-woman.
It is in shock.

No Other Choice

Thickness is not part of the disguise. The joke is not carefully hidden. A pink veil, hardly larger that a handkerchief, attempts to cover it all. I can see parts of its broken frame from every corner of the room, from every angle I try to capture with my hand. Little pieces of metal fall continuously onto the tiled floor, and as the structure breaks, I can hear muted screams and terrible laughing. I am in a yellow room, completely alone, and the structure sits in the center, on a high backed wooden chair. An airborne metallic spear nearly stabs me, disintegrating as it hits the plaster wall to my rear. And continuous, within the mayhem, a continuous stream of foul smelling smoke rises from the center.
I knew it to be an illusion.
The complete package, containing all my perceptions. My inheritance disguised as love, and passed to me with unconscious care.
I felt cold…alien.
I watched everything I ever knew, all that I thought I needed…I watched it crumble, nearly impaling me with each moment of decomposition.
I cried and remembered.
The moments of bliss, so far and few between. My moments of wakefulness, opening to the Real.

For a second, the illusion had vanished. I was awake.
And then, the desires began. The attempts at recreation. All of them, false roads and no teacher.
Sunbathing naked,
Burning man,
Train trips
Sex
Only failed attempts at waking.
Where had it gone?
I spent my years unhappy. Aware of the veil, aware of my human trappings, but unable to stop the desires.
When would my peace come?
When could I rest?
Would it be the artistic job? The wonderful lover? The trip to Africa?
What would it take to feel alive? As I had once felt on a train in Italy.
And so I spent my time in continuous struggle, believing, on the worst days, that everyone else- every person on the planet- understood something I didn’t.

And now, I struggle still.
With a new set of tools, yet unable to control my desires.
I know they are not happy, and there is no peace that can be found within the world of possessions.
And yet, peace is not what we seek, although my body craves its illusion like a drug.
I feel pain
Knowing that a normal life provides no happiness.
Knowing that a life of Work promises no rewards either.
And there is no other choice.
Delusion or struggle
Illusion or Work
But I see mirages on all sides.
Above and below, and I am bound tight.
They beckon me to rest, to lay upon their soft breasts and hide.
The Real darkness cannot be seen pressed between two nipples.
Their naked bodies call to me.
Their promises roll over me like waves of pink sleepiness.
They beg to throw the veil upon my eyes.
But never again could I lay naked on a beach, the hours passing like slow moving clouds.
I exist, in neither world.
I do not exist at all.
Yet I claim to.
I see my attached hands grab at my breasts.
I feel tears gather at the corners of my eyes each dawn
I look to the others, with their shopping bags and lovers.
I too, have tried to escape by these means.
It does not work
Not for me.
Disguised in cleaver, colorful clothes, my smile danced upon the lips of crystal goblets. Extending my tongue, licking the purple wine like a cat lapping milk.
Each droplet forever infecting me with the need of contact.
It is the blood for which I craved.
To dig, deep.
Into the veins with my long, pointed teeth,
My lips, parted and red from another encounter
The goblet has been offered, and I accepted with tongue outstretched. Lips opened by hands of long fingers.
A piano plays, pinkied notes of high esteem dab at drops of blood escaping. As I am only a novice, I let them dribble down my chin.

A Corner

The corner feels forgotten, a tiny space that only a few people know well and they like it that way. The sun shines tenderly bright, it bounces off the mostly white walls and takes the cold edge off the strong wind coming from the ocean. It is a T intersection. The upper part of the T is a long street that runs parallel to the edge of the beach. The vertical part of the T is another long street that extends into the heart of the suburbs. As that street approaches the ocean, it gets more and more gentle, as if the corners become blurry and the edges get soft and diffused with the presence of the salty water. The wires that cross over the street are less tense and more sparse, they dangle like black yarn over the rows of parked cars. The asphalt itself is paler, less taken care of, more full of holes. The trees are green but twisted by the recurrent attack of the wind and sand.
A pickup truck is parked in the middle of the block. A long haired man sits inside talking on a cell phone. A girl in tight jean shorts walks slowly by the truck. An old Filipino man carries a couple of grocery bags to his car and looks for the keys in his pocket. A blond surfer in dirty overalls walks into his garage, a slim cigarette between his fingers. In the top window of the corner house there is a small line of clothes, old light blue shirts put out to dry. A wooden horse sits on the porch of a flat dark brown house.
Every once in a while, a car drives by. Two young Latin guys sit in a class Chevrolet, laughing softly and nodding. A bald headed woman in a long blue coat laughs and gestures with her hands to an old woman as she walks into her apartment building. A green haired girl looks with curiosity at a strange bearded man that takes pictures of her house. A middle aged man rides by in an yellow bicycle, humming to himself as he leans his head back. Three birds fly above the telephone wires in a constantly shifting but unified formation.
At its deepest core, the place is quiet. Not with overwhelming true silence, but with the quietness of the light wind moving through the sunlight and gently touching the white walls. The wind has just enough power to blur and swallow any bits of conversation but not enough to have a definite deafening roar of its own. It covers without concealing. It makes the trees sway without pushing too hard. Its touch is just strong enough to be real but not loud enough to reign supreme.
I have been here many times before. I have driven past it on my way somewhere else. I have turned this corner when I had changed my mind and wanted to return to the park. I have even parked here and walked over the hill to the beach. But I have never really seen it. Like a sound that has been just beyond the reach of my hearing, it has been there all along, but it has gone completely unnoticed.
Today, just today, my vision centers and I can see it, I can feel it. There is so much here. The festering cruelty under the brush. The gentle sleepiness behind the window. The urgent need behind the car wheel. The crumpled memories on the window sill. The light touches of life in the unkempt garden. The face of a god on a discarded piece of twisted wood.
As my eyes open, and my heart speeds up with raw undefined true emotion, every little element of this place resonates with me and wherever I place my attention, more secrets are revealed.

The Monster

The monster is loose again.
She was in hiding for a couple days, into the woods she went, trudging the soggy paths, up to her chin in fir needles and hidden shadows. Covered in soot, she had found berries and winged mushrooms, after eating which, she saw it all clearly. She rested in the hollows of trees, where the sun never warmed the moist wood, where golden rays have never entered, with no hope of making love through the growth inside. She burrowed in the darkness, feeding on worms and others in exile.
Her rest was needed, she had been banished, momentarily, while the one she normally served- that’s how she thought of it- was on a higher cloud. The girl, normally quite troubled had suddenly found her smile, she was laughing and letting the troubled waters wash over her like warm Mexican waters on a soft moonlit night. The monster had been exiled, although, at the time, she was not too worried; it was only a matter of time until she regained her strength.
There would come a moment, all too soon, when she would be called back. Not by the voice of the girl, but by another force within her. The monster nestled, waiting for the sickening feeling to come through her. She waited until the moment was ripe with foul blood, until her host was weak and unattended.
Soaring high, with all her inexperience, there would be a crucial moment, when all was open, and that’s when the monster would strike. From the shadow lands she crawled mightily, lurching through a hundred realms like the unstoppable force of destruction and creation that she had trapped in her tiny heart. Both possible under the right circumstances. And she, the lovely monster, chose to destroy. They both chose it, only one never saw it coming. The girl was a willing collaborator, just more unconscious, more naive in the powers of betrayal that dwelt within and without her realm. The monster chuckled, popping saved worms and berries into her tooth filled mouth, savoring the creative combination of tastes.
Yes, the job is still needed, the position wide open. When the girl falls, the other will enter, leaving victims in her wake. Tears will fall, oh yes, they will land in puddles that take the shape of all the other waiting demons, so close to the surface they take a multitude of ingenious shapes. In the cereal bowl, in the swirl of tea leaves. Always there, always a friendly reminder that they wait. They have been there all along, the girl thinks they’re leaving now? Not without a fight! A real fight for will and presence, and one will have to be destroyed.

Confirmation

The sky is gleaming. After preparing the space, I walk the perimeter, giving thanks to those forms that have helped create it. I stand in the middle. I close my eyes, as I thank spirit, a dozen birds soar over my head. They fly above, directly overhead they move in a raucous formation.
A smile crosses my face, and I feel the vibrating of their wings as they circle. They are in time with spirit, at this moment, they are the voice of spirit. Yes, we are heard, loud and quite clear.

Yes, even though you appear to be clueless, to be simply following the guide’s instructions, yes, we are heard. They fly in a circle above, and land in the star jasmine next to me. They continue their melody and play, granting me the noises of a lovely chatter.
I have never heard them so loud, like giggling girls, drunk on wine for the first time. They have never made themselves so known.
Yes, spirit sent them. A direct line to the mysterious center. Oh, thank you for revealing once again. Thank you for opening with wetness, for allowing me a glimpse, for my smile.

The hours have passed and I sit in my room, gently fighting back the waves of sleep that pursue me. "I must finish this," I think. This , my task of will. This, my clear objective. Everything inside wishes to end, to shut this computer off and close my eyes. Blissful sleep awaits.
But quitting is the sleep of my machine, not just the need of my body. It is the manifestation of a tendency- a superficial desire to stop before all is done well. It is my habit- screaming for me to listen- they have the right answer.
My eyes are sagging slightly at the sides. I think of my master, working hard. Hard for us, hard for himself, hard for all beings everywhere… so I continue to write.
It is with his example that I continue. I learn from another. As he has learned from another, as his teacher learned from another. This lineage is clear, not by name, but I feel it. From one to another, passed for how long? How clearly important it is for me to grasp this moment, this fleeting bit of time that slips with each blink of my eye.
Another is gone, I thought too hard about this sentence, and another bit of time has gone. And they have stopped. Give me more time to understand. I heard that when my attention grows, the moments will spread out and I will be able to feel and perceive more. Now, it is all I can do to stay awake and write these thoughts. This stream of consciousness with no point I can discern except the act of doing- perhaps that is the point.
This is my link to spirit.

Filling the Space

All the talking in the world does nothing to disguise this state
I talk you listen
You don’t hear
My sounds only spark other thoughts within you
You think
You listen to yourself
You hear what you want
You only understand what you already know.
There is no real dialogue
No real exchange
We both don’t care
We are simply together
Filling the space
The space of nothingness
We try to mask the uncomfortable feeling within
In the darkness of early day
you try to buy your way into security
Into the feeling of meaning
We fear the nothingness
Slashing boxes, piling the merchandise on shelves,
Useless things destined for the trash
Sooner that you think
Disposable items, like lost dreams of happiness
Why does it not come within these things?
These plastic bags and boxes.
Artifice and cloth. How is it we’ve come together? This strange lot of dwellers that move in the dark hours between sleep and sun. pointless questions posed and answered. Is there caring? Do I actually care about you? I notice the whistling.
The strange habits of myself. My tendency to open my big mouth, to share information unneeded and unwanted.
This blast of insight moves me to an undiscussed dimension. Where only my beautiful master can make sense of it for me. My guide in this labyrinth. My tears swell to the greatness of storms. Pureness wraps me with strong arms, soft and white. Hold me with your hand on my head, like the tiny child I am.
Like the great void that looks out of these eyes. How does this nothingness move? How does it talk?
Writing on these keys, perceiving these sounds. This strangeness stirs me. And I cry. I could be sad, if I chose this. I could be smiling, if I chose this. I could remain with this headache, this ball of energy trapped behind my ears, atoms vibrating against each other like schoolyard children. They push against each other, hard and fast, like boiling water on our white stove top. Tsss, tssss, the bubbling water boils over, tsss, steaming the air, moisturizing my organs.
I feel you from the inside, massaging me with the care of a dear friend. Tears roll, they keep coming, this energy providing me with an amount of strangeness. Sad if I choose, strange if I choose. Productive if I choose.
It’s all up to me. This supposed individual, this lie of an individual. My rights, my desires, my feelings, all of these simple perceptions, embedded into these cells, they have moved beyond any control I possess. They work for their own concern, devising my downfall with glee. They wait for the sweetest moments, when I am drifting to sleep.

Delicate Space

Wrapped around his solid trunk are creamy legs, soft and smooth, they cross at his back. Like shimmering roots from a magical tree, her limbs nestle themselves to his waist. At each moment, with one movement succeeding the other, she pulls herself closer to him. Atoms attempt to flee, running ferociously to the warmness of his skin.
His hands grip her waist, with the force of pure love, he slips in. Building the energy with each passing moment, with each thrust and pull, her wakefulness blooms. Feeling every bodily detail, each kiss is a world unto itself- a universe entered and quickly explored. Again and again, lips are shared, planets become defined in all their spherical wonder. It is not only his arms, not only his cock and body, stronger than all are his attention. Capturing each of her cells, each little vein and drop of blood. Like a thin net meant for stealing fairies, he finds her; the little lost pieces, the bits of physic power flailing into the ethers, he recovers everything, bringing it all before his eyes, holding everything before him.
Is this real? Perhaps not, probably not. But he holds her despite this, because of this. With this. She feels a wave, unlike anything she has ever known. Oh, they are on top, an eternity of water below them. Hold me, she thinks. A sound escapes her mouth, a bit of fear that exposes the newness. The crest rises, entwined, they bounce together, the rhythm of the water propelling them higher. She has never known waves like this, with the power of everything she has yet to understand. She feels his arms, enveloping him with a love she could never describe…but they seem like her arms. Is she holding herself? Is it her arms that are his? Is it him that holds her? Is it everything that keeps her close? Everything and nothing. One and nothing. She cries, remembering his massive strength, she sinks into him, trusting he’s there.
Later they rest, warm and soft together. She moves her hand across his chest, each stroke against him is lovelier than anything known. Together, they hold a space- more delicate than any known matter. It breaks with the slightest foul wind. And she, most inexperienced, does not have the knowledge to care for this tender space. Within a couple sentences, she has become human once again, speaking as humans do, worrying as humans do- with all this, the wave moves past. They are left in the water. In the distance, they watch as the peak crashes ashore.

Eternity

Face the Real, the endless, eternal, timeless Real. Step back and face it.

From the distance, it is clear. Everything is in place and the pieces match. Nothing can possibly be out of place. Every little detail, no matter how subtle or complex, extends out to every other in an infinite network of correspondences and reflections.

Then you fall back into the maelstrom and things become confused, chaotic and unintelligible.

In the clarity, you can see the waves. The rushes of vast energy, reaching up and outwards, trying to find a place of rest, seeking the end and finding eternity. Forever. A timeless dance that will rise and fall to the vast infinitely fractal breath of nothingness.
The end is an illusion. There can be no end because there was no beginning. What didn’t begin cannot end. The flow of time itself is our illusion. What happens now and what happens then. The space between them and the space around them. All an illusion.
And it is only within the illusion, that you will create an end for yourself, a final clear resting place where struggle stops and the waves become a calm, gentle pool that will never move again. You may rest in such a place for what will appear to be a long time (a long time which is not eternity but which you may fool yourself into believing that it is) but sooner or later the resting place, the end that you were seeking, will come to an end.
Because it wasn’t before, it won’t be again.
Because you arrived at it, you will surely leave it.
You can only eternally be in the place that you never left.
The end of things will have an end in itself.

Any process that begins will end.
Any process that ends will begin… again.

Open your eyes for the first time and the world is brand new, rushing at you from all directions, incomprehensibly beautiful sounds and sights penetrating you through all possible gaps in your frail armor… and you are in it… you are part of it, without questions or answers, without the need for either. A complex symphonic orchestra that others will call a "doctor", a "nurse", a "hospital", a "mother"… and an even stronger storm of experience inside of you that others will teach you to call "fear", "pain", "hunger", "love".
For a time you may be allowed to swim in it, to drench in the myriad colors beyond the linguistic horizon, to laugh at jokes that have no punch line and dance to rhythms that have no measure.
But around 4 or 5, you fall… and the fall will bring answers with it. Answers that spell an end to freedom. A luscious apple of human knowledge that brings a new beginning, a limited sentence of incarceration in a world of predetermined limits.
Hold on to those answers too tightly and there may never be any questions again. What is this? Who made it? How was it made? There is a very high probability that some adult will be close to you when you ask out loud, and the adult will be ready to spout a mechanical answer they themselves are only repeating from the adult that first branded them with it.
And this simple mechanical answer becomes a "fact" and the questions are sealed away. There may be moments when the questions come back but these moments become fewer and less frequent as time goes by, until you look back onto your past and laugh at the foolish little kid you once were. "But that was back when I didn’t know the harsh realities of life. Once you are an adult there is no more room for foolish questions."
With the questions sealed away, deep in your subconscious, so deep that even in dreams they will be cloaked in myth and memories of schoolyard games… what will happen when the Real breaks through once again, uninvited, and forces you to come face to face with it.
What if the Real doesn’t match the mechanical answer you were given so long ago. What if it happens that your parents didn’t know everything? What if your preacher was wrong? What if the old men who made every effort to put all their knowledge in one book came short? What if your teacher didn’t know what she didn’t know? What will you do then?
Everything that you know as your reality had a beginning.
And because it had a beginning, it will have an end.
Sooner or later, you will find yourself back in Eternity.

What will you do "then"?
What did you do "then"?
What do you do "now"?