My Darling, when you ask me what it is I like, I must tell you that I like the horizontal slant of late-day light pouring through the trees like warm and luscious syrup. Within that honey magic there is no blind reliance on the false gods, because everything is spontaneously self-liberating — the ambient coo of the winged tree animals, the delicious caress of a gentle breeze, the way you look into my eyes as if there is no before or after.
Softly, softly I whisper to you that the whole desperate history of distance is presently evaporating. We will watch it grow smaller until it never was or will be. For those who find a certain subtle joy in loneliness, we will tell you that it is possible to exchange that small selfishness for one without any enduring sense of self at all, not even a shimmer, an echo. It is possible to be what we are and always have been – possible to be that fearless.
Then we are unable to say any longer what we know or don’t know, because such conceits require belief in a distance which can no longer exist. It has gone the way of the little lies which children make up when they are trying to explain how they were before being born. Indeed, we seem to be standing here in the late afternoon sun, but we are no longer waiting to be born. That exquisite moment is perfectly timed to our death, but we are whatever persists before and after any event — birth, death, love-making.
This is why the glorious light is falling all around us, yet we are never implicated. We are never moved from this eternal embrace by the time it takes for heaven to pour its sweetness through the forest, across the shining pond, and into the souls of the passionate invisible beings who have arrived here for a just taste of that, a taste of us. That is also why nobody will find us here. They will only see a mirror, a mirror which will simply reflect back to them the unspeakable beauty of their own hearts. Isn’t that enough?
Even though it sometimes seems as if this meager place has only known sadness, within our shared dream we all live in a transparent house high above the winds of the world. We send our light out from there and watch, entranced, as it pours in a horizontal slant through the forest trees like warm and luscious syrup. Whomever it touches will be expanded in a blossoming euphoria until they eventually begin to understand that there is no longer any reason to resist falling fully into it.
A time will come when all reluctance and chronic ambivalence is at last released, all sorrow and inner conflict forgotten, because it has gone the way of the little lies which children make up when they are trying to explain how they were before being born. We will no longer be compelled by our implanted sense of shame to make excuses, because we have recognized our natural magnificence, and how even the most mundane thought can birth fantastic universes beyond the human intellect’s most far-reaching comprehension.
In another part of the dream, we were taught about the great migrations of the air animals, the sea animals, the land animals. It is a wonder how ardently they struggle to return home when moved by their natural instincts. There can be no failure in this, even for those who may seem lost along the way. Likewise, such intense yearning for home may once have deeply motivated us too, before we learned the pure and graceful art of the winged tree creatures — the blissful cooing sound they make in the late-day light. Now there is only pellucidity, and the way we look into each other’s eyes as if there is no before or after. My Darling, when you ask me, this is what I like.