May 4 by The Running Son
The most intense sober experiences of a life. One on the heals of another, the lightning before the thunder.
The light was blinding. It came from out of the sky and found me and I lit the heavens, and it was glorious and there was music that filled my ears that no man could possibly compose, and no orchestra of angles could ever perform.
A blink. An instant of light, a mighty eye of approval, representing all things and speaking for all time, and for a second it opened and spoke silently, a message of immeasurable peace and ease and opened byways for entry and exploration and free use of the tools found. They are found by foraging, by sifting through the rich earth, brushing aside chips and stones and small growth and retrieving some object of such rare beauty, that to take it is to disturb the pattern of beauty itself. But it is OK, it’s ok. No law will change by it’s adoption. You may take it gently up and the many elements around it will recognize its absence and draw together and heal the spot.
That item must be used. That jewel of raw material must be added into something, a project of many blocks and stones and jewels that is forming into something, a something when tallied and totaled, equals up to a new sum, no division, no 1 and no 0… something to the power of.
And it is good. The earth, the sky and air around all agree. This creative point of all conscious focus is good and right. It is.
But it does not hold, It does not stay that way. The earth demands it back and it cannot be held for long. It must dis-integrate and return to it’s place, to a sound, to the call home. It must go and you must let it. It is exquisite, and to let it remain so you must let it be, to go.
But you dont, and the heavens close and the sound goes dissonant and all of a sudden you cry, will cry, for a resolve that only feeds the ring, until it is deafening and threatens to blow wide open, the thunder, the drumbeat of eardrums that cannot contain the no-sound of non-process and cosmic control, and ego powerplays and forays into playing god and disturbing the natural order by holding onto powers and images and hopes and past lives and things that aren’t yours. Not giving, not wanting to return the gift that natural processes, grace and a second-long burst of light allowed to you, a soul, a small emergence given a moment to shine, that is the source of the pain of existing in time, and decaying.
But the light that sparks the void, must merely flash. The “we” that play with light, must allow the law of process to perform, as water does around a boulder, and love does around a death, and creativity does around inevitable laws of light pulses. and the thunder that complements them.