The Unspoken Within

I walk through an abandoned morning.
Within me stirs a ripple, a flutter: Is it the boundless freedom that rises within me in the presence of the one? I watch.

The hands —long, strong fingers carving through the very air— speak to me. In their movements, they grasp the rhythm of my ever-shifting self. I trace their delicate dance, adorned with rings bearing the ouroboros and the eternal knot.
Then, my gaze drifts downward to the brown leather belt, etched with red Indian patterns, illustrated with hawks in flight, wings spread wide against an unseen wind.
The waves of hair fall like midnight rivers, framing the soft curve of the beard.
There, before me, the bare chest reveals, an offering to the eyes. My gaze lowers, gently. My breath catches in the stillness, yet flows on. I surrender to the stillness, a weightless presence, dissolving into the hush of it all.

I write from a place beyond time and space.
A place where creativity spills forth like molten light.

I ascend further, to the sacred heights of limestone caves. From here, I watch it all unfold —life, illusion, self— each dissolving into something vaster. I look down and wonder: What lies beyond? What is real? How much of is I?

At the shore, the water shimmers with shifting shadows as hundreds of bats sweep across the sky in black waves. In the heart of the tide, an islet rests in silence. The water quivers, swallowing their fleeting reflections before bats vanish into the hunger of the night.

Baijak forests leave whispering in the salt-tinged breeze. Palm forests frond murmuring stories of monsoons long past. Nature moves quietly from baijaks to palms, palms to baijaks; in an endless pulse of impermanence.

As constellations long to emerge, behind the heavy-scented banana trees, Venus rises a lone beacon. Above, the blood-red lunar eclipse lingers, its glow mirroring the hues of banana blossoms. One echoes the other, bound in the same unbroken cycle.

And in that moment, I understand:
The beauty of the flow lies in its fleeting nature.
To fix it with thought is to sever it from its own nature, to cast it into absence.

I sit, my breath slowing, the weight of the journey settling into my bones.
The past dissolves into the present, and I'm here. Now.
The questions fade, yet something lingers —not answers, but a hum, soft as wind moving through the palm trees.

Nothing to grasp, nothing to hold.
Only this breath, this tide—
drawing me forward, releasing me,
until I am nothing but the current itself.