The invisible particles of creation have been released into the stream of this reality and, with its nuances and subtle articulations, have started weaving a dream beyond my understanding. They have already been released, and to turn them back would mean certain death for me; perhaps certain rebirth for another? But this is not a song for “another”. This is a song for me. This is my dream. No one is here but me. I am on my own. This is my universe. I am the master of my universe and my soul has permeated its every corner.
Though uncertainty seems to be a constant in me as an underlying noise that gives birth to pain in my mind and my body, my soul has spread its wings and is soaring over this mountainous land. When the soul sings, physicality matters not. There is confidence I feel that’s hidden in this uncertainty. It’s a fragile confidence but i don’t imagine any other form of confidence to face uncertainty without a touch of fragility in it.
As a creative human being, as a thinker, a dreamer, an idiot, an intellectual, a sage, a wise man, a teacher, a student, a fool, a scholar, or really a no-one... whichever of these describes what I am, or what it is that I do, may possibly become apparent here, with its own formation. I don’t know how, but I am curious to find out. Although I am curious, I am frightened too, but I’d rather find a way to embrace that fear than run back to the comforting and terrifying certainty of the daily reality.
My soul feels expansive and ‘at home’ here. When I am in nature especially, these mountains eradicate all doubt from my mind. They have a gravitational pull like nowhere I have ever felt. I want to stay on top of these mountains forever and run freely and never come down. If I were a soulless person, enticed by this insignificant body of mine, I wouldn’t mind being desensitized and demagnetized from this place. But there is a soul here and it’s quite significant. It’s connected to this land, to this water, to these trees, these ancient monasteries with odorous thymes that grow inside their walls; to these rivers, the whistling winds, the pitch black nights, to this grass and to the hopping grasshoppers.
I hear this land singing at all times. It sings to me. That singing has a frequency that belongs to it alone and none other. I find myself effortlessly gliding into its resonant flow, flow that seems to be trapped inside the dissonant fluctuations of my mind, but... Mind is a myth.
I am free... I flow.
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