Sing

Those who are liberated don't speak about a path, a spiritual technique, or embodiment. They don't use words like "non-dual awareness." In fact, they hardly speak at all. They sing. They're not even liberated, because no-thing ever existed to be liberated from. Whatever that search was, with all its telltale footprints of powdered sugar, the scattered rudhraksha beads of a broken mala, it disappeared into meandering dandelions, which now appear as they are: exploding galaxies of uncreated light. Every breath an ejaculation of the ordinary, we let regrets and anxieties, ideas about the past and future, default into their original field, electrical sensations in the brain. No images, no thoughts, no memories, but a humming continuum of nameless honey, energy without form, where mind and body were never two. This is the pre-verbal music that trills creation, with joyous differences, but no edges. At 5 A.M. a sparrow breaks the unutterable void into a trillion slivers of glittering darkness.