I awoke to a vision of melding light.
Ideals and sciences participated as rays of amalgamation, quantum gunk;
every possibility, compressed, in a particle reactor of consciousness.
The pressure of it all precipitated into endless strange realms, eventually this, the hearth of imagination, birthplace to the stars in the yawning of the universe’s frame rate,
the rate of being.
It was all a fantastic spectacle of meditation, some advanced wave function beyond my calculation, birthing universes and black holes, spiritual renaissance, seeming more like the euphoria described as DMT than anything else I could imagine, and it all pointed to one thing, spirit, the source of intention, the eye of the mind, by which all things are seen, finally looked upon itself, the heart of the Ouroboros within its’ own teeth.
I once meditated into a haven of crystal plenitude, islands of pristine beauty where love was garnered for all, searching for nirvana.
I believed it to be there and craved to be nowhere else, but it was only later, within that flash of presence, as I saw every place and possibility that is, was, and would be together within waking vision, did I become lucid and finally see the nirvana that I had been searching for all along within the malleability of all things.
I realized the precipice of all action stems from the light of intent, and within it, all principles, parallel universes, stories, and biographies are ensued.
From the seed of creation; all forms sprout into the flowers of life so desired, and all that can be is, because of that very causality and intent.
All forms are maintained, and all possibilities are produced within a reactor of consciousness, and reality at large lies within the intent of this presence, the result waiting on the other sides.
The life pulse is shared by all dreamers;
the flash is the blood in their hearts
and everything else,
all paths, spectacularly melded together as one.
I know this from the unifying and undying flash that I felt in waking, and from it, I know that all possibilities await, that all things are different yet the same, together yet separate.
All riddles say the same thing;
-Jerry Harris III