The ecstatic can never be sought, or experienced. The ecstatic is the silent explosion of that which is already here before I look for it.

The ecstatic is the flowering of emptiness, so fragrant with the absence of "I" that it feels no hunger to be filled. Now the world ecstatically appears in the vacuum, as the radiant afterimage of my non-arising. And this is the graceful celebration of freedom from the search.

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