The Pacific Ocean is only the most obvious outward manifestation of a vast and pervasive conspiracy. It is clearly not a conspiracy of the human mind, but one dreamed into the fabric of all moments, and the constitution of all planes. Who is in the dream, and what they did, were the usual questions upon waking. But they are unnecessary questions; waking from dream is transcendence of its content.
The inertness of preconscious elements was transcended with the first combustion of hydrogen in oxygen. Thus began consciousness, in the byproduct of this Fire, in its ashes, awakening with a bang - a big one. The ashes of hydrogen, Aquamoré, became self aware and created Corpus, incredible self-replicating instruments, deoxyribonucleic neuronal vehicles flowering in the physical realm. Causality, time itself, is a coincidental side effect of the creation of Corpus.
The ashes of hydrogen sprayed out to every neighborhood of the cosmos, raising awareness like wisps of rising fog. But no speck of Aquamoré could ever be disconnected from the others, no matter the distance or the obstacle between, for all drops run to the ocean within us. The continuous awareness ensuing from this ash flow was always being, beyond physicality and causality. Action was always-never-not creating tension between a dreamed past and a supposed future, stopping to rest, ever so mindfully, in the living moment. Language conjugated verbs to wrestle with tense.
Letting go was always-ever a return to being the awareness, being the ashes of hydrogen. There is no time like the present, nor the past, nor future. There is no time. The notion that there is something to let go of resolves a codex that the universal mind has never forgotten to spend lifetimes puzzling over. Anything held is always held, until it never was. Thus, true letting go is retroactive, immediate and permanent - simultaneously whenever.
Awash in elementals pervading the cosmos, the observer outside of time dissolves the boundary between all-knowing and no-knowing. It unifies the corporeal instruments that were always never separated. Droplets of Corpus collide and disperse in irreverent space-time child's play. Their unifying awareness is without adornment, while death is their elaborate fantasy.
The quiet impulse of the heart requires no motive of mind. Like Sol does for Gaia, the heart circulates the ashes of hydrogen autonomically for Corpus. Beads of sweat at the end of the fingers have journeyed for lifetimes across the cosmos. Sol ejects his coronal mass as the fingers dip into the Pacific Ocean. Gaia gasps in orgasm, and turns in her bed of stars to embrace him. Her deoxyribonucleic hair swirls lusciously in a sunbeam that lights their newborn universe.
(Image from FACES of WATER by Moses Hacmon. Please explore this beautiful work.)
