The eyes go on recess and the self retreats into a space between two second ticks. That voluminous void with imaginary walls on which audible thoughts ricochet, producing long-living echoes. Yes, serenity. Divinity within reach, yet, strangely elusive when trying to grab a hold of it, prolonging a reluctant apotheosis.
The breath of immortality, like a calm wind, blows soothingly on the 33rd step leading to the temple that houses thoughts. Consequently, the inter-connected rope-like materials within the physical being become less tight. A subconscious act of self-surrender, without any intent of being a medium.
“Is one worthy of being a vessel to be filled with godly substance?” The question seems to be one without a definite answer. But there’s never a question without an answer. Sometimes, the question is the answer.
The mind hangs in the balance, until the the answer drifts in. It floats around like paper in the wind and then settles on the blood-red floor. Finally, levitation has its day and gravity retreats into the background.