There is a kind of knowing, like a tender touching without hands, which impregnates the whole body in the same way subtle tones of some angelic music sift and drift through the burgundy evening, permeating mind’s secret tabernacle with the sublime emotion of unqualified release.
Like theatrical characters in ghostly motion, all performing in a pantomime of time, we’ve arrived at dreaming’s crossroads where we’re waiting for the light to change, waiting for the moment we’ll be born again, only to find that there’s no other world, we are not elsewhere, we are here.
There’s no boundary on where or what that is, nor name or label that applies, just you and I and all creation, joyously entangled together in the pure enchantment of our loving, warm tears brimming, and no fear at all, nor need of any armor of cool resistance to the interpenetration of soul and Supreme.
We vowed to become what we’ve always been: an innocent radiance shining through the brilliant body of our diamond being, suffused with every graciousness and pregnant with infinite possibility. Ah, this wonder, conceived in the womb of emptiness, expands in all directions simultaneously, compassionately unfurling itself into glad tidings of streaming blessing for the sake of all suffering sentience.
Like some exquisite god that nobody has yet found a way to worship, we die into life, exhaling that secret sound in which every light-eyed creature blissfully luxuriates as they patiently await the shining ones, now afloat in the amniotic fluids of primal ecstasy, who choose to return here again and again, if only to shine and shine.