Sweet Dreams

I stand alone at the base of a precipice, staring, steel eyed, numb; the sheer face taunting me. I know there is bliss at the top but I am clueless as to how to reach it.

My shooting Star, my jewel, my talisman — is nearby and I look into its eyes, the depth of which, seem infinite at this point. They anoint my sense of connection with the universe. Through them I see a sacred passageway from my solitary being to that of the universe. The knowing comes to me that I am indeed not alone, simply separated, temporarily, from the rest. Separated by a pathway, which I can now navigate safely, easily.

As if by magic, the pathway has elevated me to the perspective of abundance, of love, of passion, and of bliss — which soothes me like a balm. I contemplate bottling the essence of this experience; distilling it, saving it for a rainy day, which my voice of “reason”, knows, is right around the corner. I realize though that the ephemeral nature of this state of being is a necessity.

A vague sense of scarcity echoes from the cloud of numbness behind me. This energy/perspective must be protected at all costs, must be shielded from the forces of anger and sadness, and most of all apathy — where to put it though — my shoulders are naked.

The sensibility of abundance steps in and reminds me that this energy is infinite. It does not need protection. In fact, an act of trying to protect it by hiding it or burying it in a safe place will result in it being inaccessible — to any realm.

I’m reminded that this is the realm of the soul, and that the soul is NOT my body. The body is finite and limited; the soul is infinite and expansive. The soul will be my playground (and memory palace) for this state of being.

As the sun begins to set on this magical place I slowly, reluctantly begin my retreat. I wonder at the accessibility of such a state in the face of the everyday world. I ruminate on just how one weaves such a gentle delicate silk into the harsh territory that is the everyday. Certainly such a fragile weave will bend and buckle under the pressure of being human — but this weave is the craft, and my intuition tells me that it is not only possible, but indeed is my mandate.

The pathway, by which I came, need not be a vortex that opens and closes arbitrarily. The task at hand is to build a bridge in that space of potential — a bridge from the absolute vastness of the soul, to the Flesh and Bone.

This bridge need not be steel reinforced, in fact just the opposite — it must be flexible, for while connecting to the gentle waves of the sea of the soul on one side, it must also connect to the crashing breakers of the physical self and the physical realm.

Those eyes whose infinite nature so recently captured me now begin to close. The pessimist in me sees this as an end. The optimist sees it simply as the beginning of the next cycle of this particular energetic interlude.

It is nighttime. The light of the day will be back soon enough.

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