He glides by slowly along the ocean floor, as far away from the light as possible, going months on end without eating: the sea's monk. Concentrating on the one thing essential, a mind honed in to the singular event. At this level, all is purple-black, all is not-I.
There are no superfluous movements, no extraneous thoughts.Millions of years of mutation have passed it by and still he remains true to himself, lost in the silence and darkness. Every pathway has been meticulously studied by his scholar-eye. Nothing escapes his consideration. Reaching the limit of contemplation, there is no choice: Every hunt is a foregone ritual that takes place in a pre-ordained world, every thought is a chant.
He never imagines breaking through the surface of his dream-like life. 'I am what I am;' instead, he patiently waits in the murky depths for food to fall to him, like manna from heaven. His life a desert, anticipating scraps of Being; or like everything else in the universe, he awaits the return of the Beloved.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment