There is a space vast enough to hold all matter, a box in which burns and reflects all light. Inclusive, yet the exit appears inside of a blink. When lights appear, images, in that closed-eye space, they are from an entirely different, only partially familiar dimension. From here the rear-view is of space-time, revealing that it was only-ever a step in a subversively kinetic refractal stairway.
I forgive myself my poor choices. I release the mind vice that traps them in my imagination. Flesh and blood, analog form, fine hair and supple skin, cracking bones and grinding teeth, all these are naught. The light shines only upon that which is not me, but neither am I darkness. Freeing each from the imaginary other, this dimension progresses through apparent evolution-time. While waiting for the moment to close my eyes and be silent, I craft thought form reality waves, apply the archetypes, and watch them dance our lives.
Sol blazes into the triumvirate eye as it opens upon the fore-headed seam, dutifully burning and clearing the karmic clouds. The gray and white turbulence offsets the jubilant blue, sprinkling loving water through clarifying sunlight over the pond and surrounding forest. The ground burbles pleasantly in abundant moisture. Gaia is full of expectation and the swelling flush of life. Aquamoré erupts liberally in amorous geysers. Melodious birdsong, concise frog croak, and the cyclic bluster of Atmos in her photosynthetic hair, tumble together out of time, entwined.
I have only ever wanted to find out whether complete union is possible, and to experience it. It's what I came here for, to allow the self-evident witness to merge the two and return them all to the ever-was-always one. I ingest Gaia through the intestinal tube between dimensions. Meanwhile, the drizzle splattering on my forehead sparkles like dust on a sunbeam, like a solar vitamin, an electrolytic battery, powering dissolution, uptake and finally reintegration.
Atmos curls a finger around an ear and puffs a giggle onto sensitive ganglia. The auric sheath of Gaia flickers in his gusting mane. Everywhere at once, Atmos is cool and light and visible only through effect, never directly, as he generously fuels their dance from an inexhaustible lung. He knows how, and he strides forward to do so with assuredness and persistence. A sensuous brush here, a bit of hot breath there, a vibrating glance to stoke the fire, in rousing form he disperses seed and perfects imperfection.
Emanating the white vapors of winter’s breath, we pant vigorously as we run up the terrace, echoing crispness like the dead click of hollow pincers. I tease the evaporated wisps through my fingertips, letting it all go. I am transparent to the wind. I am the view from above, and I can see myself working through this isolated form. Behind eyelids we undifferentiate beyond the ever-opening gate of realization. That which was always-never-not true lights the vast, ineffably intrinsic vector: there is no return to unknowing; we can only endlessly unfold.