Cotton clouds thinly spread across the clear sky like a holed quilt through which some sun rays may still grace the land with warmth.
I put the crimson book down for a moment, partly dazzled by the light reaching the white pages, and partly due to entranced eyes and mind, still bearing the introspective silence of my previous meditation.
The universe breathes. On it goes the show of created life with its myriad coloured lights as it sits within the Eternal Void. In the heart of movement, there lies stillness, and so the observer gazes without disturbing her breathing.
It is undoubtedly there, amidst the crawling shadows creeping through the maze of what we call our minds, that we truly find the most valuable treasures.
I pushed myself through the feeling of indolence immediately after waking up and recording my dreams; thus, abandoning my bed and engaging in all immediate rituals of self-care, eating something, doing the dishes, and brushing my teeth last. All of this without allowing myself to complain or formulate excuses and muse about distractions.
I realized two things today:
Indolence will always be there, and it is my responsibility toward myself to rise and conquer it every single day through awareness, will, and vision.
As I washed the dishes, I plunged into my head, observed, and interacted with it on regards to my dreams today and to myself with the conscious push I exerted. Looking to my left and reading the label on the honey bottle, I realized that it meant nothing to me. Even the word “honey” was empty. Like this, I became conscious of the secret to self-control and discipline (quite note: control is not punishment/depravation, but management) on regards to food consumption, any action, or any aspect of social conditioning.
Resistance only begets compulsive surrender. It is when things such as labels and actions mean nothing that we truly observe, that all temptations are rendered powerless. When everything means nothing, then do we consciously decide what to do next. There is an absence for the need to react because the stimuli mean nothing, and we are set on a vision we have made for ourselves.
This last part places me, however, in a spot where I must pen a side effect to my own processes and deductions. And that is an insidious feeling of rebelling against the insight/knowledge/wisdom acquired when thinking about it or attempting to teach it to other people and see how it can help, a feeling which strangely translates to resistance and compulsive surrender. This insubordinate is nothing more than a childish saboteur, a remnant of some subconscious programming that indulges in hoarding all effort and revelation because it somehow has made it seem that sharing tips was the way of losing them.
Well, let today be the day in which I take this saboteur to the guillotine!
I want to watch its head roll off, and behold the execution platform be bathed in its blood!!
As nightfall paints the world, I relish the peace before the storm. A distant dribbling basketball marks the pace to trance and mindfulness in this precious silence. It will all be tainted when the front door opens, and the artificial lights turn on.
The dribbling ball has stopped. There is only the infinite silent chiming in my ears.
The first star has appeared in the last moments of the dimming sky. A bittersweet dull sensation grips my heart. Are these my feelings, or am I channelling the essence of those I watch from the booth up the theatre of life? Is my savoring of quietude now a torture within me burning? Do I wish to be ravished by the storm?
At least, it would be done.
At least, it would be past water.
At least, I would know the extent of its atrocity.
All sunshine has surrendered to the imposing darkness. Praise the fanciful romance everlasting! The cold floor has hardened, but it cannot be thus for longer, and-
Nevermind. I cannot further my observations in sainted silence.
The door opened. The artificial lights turnt on. The storm came, and I am bored.
My reflection, at times, arches her lips as if to smile. This action only lasts a few seconds, yet it is a delight and a fright to behold it.
I have seen my reflection morph into that of a corpse-like figure. No bones showed. It was rather skin – canescent, dry, and old.
The other day, I saw my visage blend into that of a man. This male was pale and in what seemed to be his middle age. First, it was the white beard, but today, his eyebrows appeared. He does not feel as though a stranger to me, but I have always held the belief that I have been a woman in my incarnations.
When today’s session began, I worded the summoning of my true face. With still my same countenance, my eyes took the appearance of two pits of black. I blinked and trailed off a bit before continuing. Some features similar still to my current visage appeared – pieces of a man whom, to my mind, bears the resemblance of my father in his youth; but unlike him, this image sports a dark beard that encircles his face by the chin and under his lower lip. This man was bedighted in a rich blue tunic as though some elegant Middle Eastern tailoring.
Lastly, I was forced to change position. I had lost track of time, and my limbs had fallen asleep. With this change, a woman came to me. Her alabaster skin glowed in the shade erected by the backyard gazebo. Her eyes were undistinguishable, and her hair flowed as long raven waterfalls.