Thursday, March 4, 2010 at 5:00pm
True in the beginning will be true in time.
The timeless valley spirit never dies in the midst of darkness. So dark it is never light.
An armada of hundreds of millions of vigorous foot warriors, without exhaustion and swift like an avalanche, tramps at full throttle along the banks of the Fallop River of the perilous Mummu Jungle towards the misty horizon, over which lies Mt. Pangu in whose high peak dwells the target castle of conquest—the gate of all wonders. The fearsome leaders of the hordes are glistening with steel courage and well-aimed determination as they scream a primal sound to the truculent brigade that follows their advance like the thundering, roaring waters of an ocean. The pumping echoes of their steps ricochet off the great walls of craggy rock like the rumbling of thunder. The air rings with the conch-horns. With weapons in hand, the armed force is responsible to destroy anything foreign that stands in the way of the flowing battalion in its passage onward through the rivers and mountains. Any obstruction of the flow, blood is shed without hesitation, no remorse. The tumult behind them adds a rising crescendo to the collective howling outcry that pierces the stillness within striking distance by the one driven heartbeat of combat. Amidst the clamor of the deafening roar, a call—a sense of fraternity and unity of purpose—in the silence of stillness within leads each warrior motion forward, never yielding. Each warrior wears a cloak over the suit of armor to shield him from the fierce element. The acid headwind pushes against these nameless warriors’ rugged faces of iron. Their flowing capes of black and dark blue trail behind them like flags slicing the wind. Like vessels of empty thoughts, the infantry races diligently to the mysterious darkness of the final battle, never once imperiled to neither defeat nor mortality. The hardship of the wild guards the castle to not allow any straying into its forbidden territory.
The darkness is dark—darkness within darkness. So dark, it seems to come alive.
The environment is extremely hostile. Along the path of carnage, many fall to the indifferent element: acid air that takes away the vital breath, fire rain that burns the ruddy flesh, endless lightning that strikes unscrupulously like electrifying gossamer that fills the cold night sky. Like army ants of the Amazon, ten thousand warriors fall prey to the implacable environment that guards the castle with every step forward across the rugged mountain terrain toward a dark, unattested future. They are fighting to survive the battle, but each recognizes that most will die trying toward the final goal. In the herd instinct, many sacrifice themselves to further the success of advance for their stronger brothers. With detached toughness, the remaining hyperactive warriors, alone and isolated in true courage, continue their struggle forward unflinchingly for they know devouring beasts will soon decompose to crumbling skeletons those fallen behind. Death and emotion are no concerns for these ruthless warriors whose fates lie in the hand of divine will, the blueprint of purpose. Each is following his own primordial nature to storm the castle—a state of complete inner surrender. As instrument of the Divine, they march en masse along the serpentine path of focus but each man journeys along the solitary road of victory, never betraying the great vision. In the silence of their brave hearts, truth speaks to carry their spirit to the heights of the kamikaze mission, the terminal end for many but the glorious victory for their one and only king.
Those who have obtained synergetic unity with life know only eternal life. The life of the spirit is in the heart that knows no bounds.
Innumerable ravenous vultures and other cruel predatory birds are wheeling, hovering high above, waiting to eviscerate their fallen victims once the crowd rolls out. Diabolical hyenas, ferocious wolves, and unnamed mutated wild beasts are waiting on lurk for a chance to satisfy their hunger. The big feast for the hungry is but a few moments away.
Once the hordes start to ascend Mt. Pangu, archers hidden in the montane crevices and shadowy fissures release flaming arrows by the thousands to stave off the approaching army. The arrows whistle through the air. Many inevitably fall to the onslaught. As the army dwindles, a platoon of fierce warriors defeats all the odds and forge ahead past the range of the archers. Only several hundred thousands warriors remain from the heap of dead bodies behind them. They shed their weapons and armor and start to climb the vertical faces with magnificent feat of upward agility towards the sky, where it seemed to melt into the misty air. Dog-sized green lizard-men from the chasms throw glass spheres at the climbers. Once the spheres shattered onto the rocks, a slippery oily substance is released to the surface removing any grip support. Many climbers fall to their doom at the vertiginous slopes. Those remain ascend with speed and agility either by luck of the draw or destiny of the call.
At last one outstanding warrior, the sole survivor of the whole army, surpasses all others to reach the heavenly peak perched above the thick blanket of clouds. The mass slaughter leaves behind only one sign of hope that dares to be alone. It is always lonely at the top. The sky amidst the high snowy solitudes of the range is now heavenly blue, blissful and cloudless. However, the artic temperature of the frosty plateau can easily freeze the blood for any living thing inactive. The warrior must move vigorously to stay warm or else being frozen to death becomes his fate. Pacing himself he runs across the deep snow, without a thought of backing off—treading the path of sheer madness and never a single thought of giving up. He keeps going. The snow is now so thick and abundant; it drowns everything below its body of cottoned whitewater. All white is the only color from the pure land and light blue the lucid sky. As he advances with the confident air of a conqueror, the sky loses its azure color and becomes “clear.” Not clear white but rather transparently limpid like blank air without anything in the background to contrast it. Like looking at air without any background interference. The odic light in the sky is clear like sunlight in empty space, not a speck of blue in the endless sky. So clear that the brilliant sunshine appears invisible, as if the sky has been removed completely from sight. The warrior is the only contrast between white earth and clear sky in this no-man’s forsaken land.
It is so cold here, colder than cold. It is desolate here in absolute zero, more desolate than any desert. The open field here is so vast beyond mortal imagination—boundless, infinite and potential, pure and perfect. Ground zero point, beyond the horizon of comprehension. Immense. The wickedly high icy winds here can freeze the bone of anything alive. Nothing thrives here in this shell of coldness, this extreme environment—the hidden recesses of the silent and unexplored nature. Except a sole rebel. A lone predator who rules this lifeless, hostile place by wielding the cosmic sword and staring at imminent death with passionate attention. He is always one step forward trying to keep ahead of the unforgiven weather. In this cryogenic nothingness, only is he something. Infinite potential. A being so alive by everlasting life itself.
The extreme cold is unbearable as the warrior runs across the frozen lake, teeth chattering. As his breath becomes shorter and faster, he is panting almost uncontrollably. Without losing heart, he keeps moving to stay warm until the flatness surrounds him and nothing can be seen in all directions except clear invisible sky, void of any description, and a white horizon of the shining frozen sea. Taking delight he persistently marches on until the shining sea of frozen surface reflects the clear sky; the separation is no longer discernible; the two fabrics unite as they merge into invisibility. A sense of vertigo overcomes him for he no longer knows what direction is forward—the true north of purpose. He is caught in a limbo right here, in this very moment, fresh and unexpected, taking over completely by the element of surprise. He dares not stop struggling for long—resting a few moments is frozen dinner. Then he sees something out of the ordinary and he goes forth to it, seizing the moment. Action is his only respite.
It is a giant emperor penguin, slightly bigger than the warrior. It has human long thin arms and short stubby legs. It is wearing a fishskin coat and fishbone crown and holding a polar bear bone-staff in its right fin-hand. The penguin stands motionless with curious eyes staring dead-gazed at the warrior. They both look at each other in stalemate curiosity, mesmerized by the strangeness of each other’s appearance. Breaking the spell of the deadlock, the emperor starts to dance in a sunwise motion. Every heavy step it takes, the ground reverberates back like a beating of the drum. The frozen ground becomes one giant drum head of goatskin. After every fourth step, the emperor strikes the ground with its staff producing a sharper beat. The pattern remains the same: four steps, one tap. It dances with the same repetitive beat in a wide circle—four steps, one tap. After the seventh circumvention, the ice breaks by the trail of the danced path. The emperor stands inside the broken circle near its edge. The ice tips down from the weight of the emperor penguin and it begins to walk in perfect balance up the remaining ice slab as its other end sinks behind him into the dark water below. The emperor stands unmoved at the tip of the ice slab as it starts to descend into the murky water.
The emperor penguin utters out one word before final descent: “Come.”
The shivering warrior watches the emperor disappear into the water in perfect poise and equanimity.
The trembling warrior now moves closer to the opening of the black hole. Darkness is upon the face of the deep. Steam rises from the featureless dark water, some kind of continuous incompressible fluid—a mysterious medium beyond the sentient capacity to analyze. So dark the hot plasma looks like thick oil, visibly opaque—an inchoate, amorphous mass. No reflection can be seen from the dark oil-water, the great void of empty space. The lone warrior is left to two choices: die to the freezing cold looking for the castle or follow the emperor by diving into the hot firewater. Without hesitation, he confidently leaps headfirst of faith into the dark firewater of the plenum.
Every situation demands an action proper to it.
He slowly sinks downward into the pool of continuing flux and the opening of the oubliette immediately fills up by the cold light; the dark firewater slowly consumes his body stripping away his skin suit. With fever brewing to a boil, his head is about to explode from the sealing heat—an unbearable primal pain from the immersion. His body is undulating and jackknifing, shaking wildly with tension and discomfort. Silently the warrior accepts his fate: death by drowning in liquid fire. In that moment of no return, he passively remains calm to savor his last breath of life before he meets his final destiny. He relaxes into the moment, no longer pushing himself with goals about where he is going or forcing progress according to some unnecessary schedule ingrained in his determination. He feels a deep inner peace filled with profound stillness—a state of total involvement without center or fringe. Then he hears an echoed whisper: “Come Home.”
Time seems to flow frame by frame in slow, rhythmic motion. The warrior is falling slowly to the depth of the pool of energy on his back, corpse posture, while looking at the white ceiling of the pervading ice lake above. The flat ceiling spreads like a sheet of paper extending to infinity in all directions. The light above, in its inflexible forward propulsion, tries to penetrate into the depths of darkness. Blind light, whose movement forward is always a perfectly straight line, bends itself upon any obstacles in its path. True light is free of mass, the coagulation of light energy that condenses around itself due to light being traveled in a circular movement to the gravitation center of the trap—the law of attraction of the Living Power. The sinking into the hotbed of continuity stops as the wave takes the calm warrior and he seems to float suspendedly above the visible spectrum; he is in a sort of limbo of a natural calming where nothing is changed. No differentiation, only unity—an unbroken ecstasy of unity. His body is a hollow bamboo of endless energy. No tension. Below him is the glutinous abyss in which no light can enter. The blackness is alive with impalpable models in the wild-eyed gaze of the thinnest perception.
With enlivened wisdom of transcendental knowledge in that moment of truth, the warrior finally sees the radiant light of life in the fearsome flash of energy circulating before him at breakneck speed. Qualified by emptiness, clear perception of the phenomenal world—working in such incomprehensible way—washes over him. The pregnant present is revealed to his naked awareness the breathtaking panorama.
The visible white ceiling is the threshold of the collision, a violent clash, between the two kissing surfaces, one of extreme cold clear light and the other superhot dark liquid in endless evolving possibilities—the eternal battle of opposites. The flat threshold provides frozen solid matter, condensed energy—a kind of dimensional bridged surface, for the two parallel forces. In relative to the immense volume of the two forces, the threshold is merely a thin membrane that separates them and unites them--a paradox. The radiating ceiling of the membrane has a popcorn texture unlike the smoothness of its rooftop, the other side touched and waxed by the cold light. The popcorn texture—a seething froth of light particles—is actually little icicles being melted by the hot plasmic liquid to become unstoppable immutable energies, thus freeing themselves from the bridge of entanglement. As they are dissolving, they expand into less denser concentric layers of coolness producing motion in the particles. Within these layers is the spectrum of interrelated magnificent colors—a vast web of existence constantly expanding and evolving, birthing forms. Countless ice balls fall buoyantly like tropical rain into the thin firewater, which strangely is light as vacuous air, causing tiny ripples as they fall in an amazing blaze of fireworks—a display of exquisite detail—in the nothingness of the void. As these homogeneous ice balls sink and accelerate downward into the infinite darkness, concealed by it from the primordial light above, they spin like marbles rolling downhill—circles of light rotating in the vast darkness, like the sprinkling of stars in the clear night sky. Kinetic heat from the dark energy penetrates into the core of each sphere of light in a swirling motion of the spin rotation until the sphere expands and splinters, by the immense pressure of the dark radiation, into billions and billions of ice particles, which become isolated from their neighbors by the space in between. Each fractured particle holds and retains the superhot liquid core that oscillates faster than the surface solid. The fast inner rotation causes the solid surface to shift and move around, causing the original radiation to diminish, resulting in a cooling off to take place in the course of its nature. The extreme heat of the elliptically rotating fluid core creates a molten pasty mass below the solid surface of icy light.
Although broken up and peppered by the kindling, the clusters of ice particles, remaining luminous and clear without cooling off, try to coalesce back together by revolving around the larger particles, but the molten firewater separates them by creating some considerable distance in between, causing a deposit to be precipitated. The separation of the ice particles is variantly depending on the size of the broken pieces and these are moving away from one another at speeds proportional to their distance. The clump of scattered ice particles spirals around the liquid center in harmony and it sinks deeper into the depth. The particles coming into the center break into more pieces like minute iridescent bubbles. The particles near the vortex of the unmoving center are absorbed and eventually become unstable. They lose their water and dissipate into vapor clouds that rise back to the ceiling in a timeless cycle of rebirths without end. On the ascension, freely through the sea of space, the radiating vapor swirls and waves not only vertically, but also horizontally and diagonally in beautiful webs of beautiful radiant light, like gossamer of falling rain. The angelic vortices latch themselves onto other falling ice particles and yoke them to strengthen their constitution of light and guide them to transmutation. The flexible vapor forms a halo around the particles creating an intense field of pulsating colored energy. By the unenlightened nature of penetrating light, the particles try to resist the meltdown to remain solid. But the resistance is futile as all descending light particles meet the same fate: return to its original nature—a wave of light energy. The rising wave endlessly attaches itself to descending particles' downward spiral and its experienced energy and gained knowledge supports the inexperience particles, which vibrate precipitously with panic. The particles are guided by the lubricating vapor energy to remain calm within its atmospheric protection. Waves of energy know that dissolving particle is only transmuting into a wave when it winks out. Coherent light waves gain inexhaustible knowledge from the dark firewater as it releases from solidarity.
Clear unified light spreads in all directions and it travels until it comes into contact with something other than light, which is anything denser than it. Ice is mere non-light substance trapped in light. Supernal light of possibility naturally separates itself from all denser substances of actuality, which only appear dark because they do not reflect light; it swallows the light whole and encapsulates it creating atmospheric space. Ice is the bridge between light and all other non-light substances, which paradoxically are clear as light, but because of its fathomless depth, no strong light can penetrate. Darkness is the same as light, only denser and its depthless reach appears dark to the light of perception. Light has a desire, a desire to find the depth of its projectile, and this desire takes it into different forms of energy through various transmutations in order to penetrate further into the mysterious darkness of the abyss.
The warrior watches in awe at the wonder of this simple harmony, in perfect supersymmetry, within the unified zero field of consciousness. Ice spheres fall like rain and break apart into infinite galaxies of icy particles. Galaxies of icy particles scatter into of billions of stellar particles that spiral around the center of each galaxy as cosmic eggs. He realizes that he is witnessing the superverse at work in perfect beauty and harmony between two energies: one light and the other darkness. The colliding union of these two meshing energies at the threshold stirs the superverse to action, an action only possible by the surrendering and resurrecting of energy to create countless numbers of universes. Everything is singing—a silent celestial sound that hums like the sweetest music never been heard to the countless worlds that interpenetrate one another in simultaneity. The origin of all things lies still in the beyond in the form of the suprasensible world of ideas that have yet to become real.
Life is consciousness through the perception of light as it penetrates into the heart of darkness, the guiding dark light of deeper silent knowledge.
In gentleness and purity, the warrior comes to a realization that death itself is an illusion of only human ignorance whose stubbornness creates an independent identity of panic in order to maintain a sense of unshakable security during its allotted time in mortal existence. Life continually transmutes and knows no permanent death. This fearless warrior now knows that his fate is met but his undefeated destiny is still in the depthless horizon of light. In that intense moment of sublime satisfaction, he no longer has to fight the inevitable for his chosen identity and lost life as he experiences eternal existence in emptiness. With the tactile sense, he now stands terminally impotent before the crux of changes.
The warrior king lets go to become the wave—the solution. Everything and nothing. Nothing is everything. Nothing whatsoever to do. What “is” has always been there and always will be. Everything was, be, or to be will be as it naturally is. Naturally settling into the self-contained situation of the effortless thought-free state, he becomes the Path and knows the Way to the castle. He doesn’t have to storm the castle, he walks into Life.
Nothing exists that is not a part of the whole.
He is the one, always has been but forgotten—lost and now found. Life is just a story being lived.
The warrior opens his eye to this new blinding light of truth and he cries both in pain of realized recognition and overjoyed sensation of ignored oblivion.
He utters his last words, “I am a c'ode of song.”
Those beloved words of self-realized liberation at the overwhelming beauty of it all echo in the depths of emptiness in vibrating harmony of bliss.
He is awakened. “I am an energy force from nothing.”
No more becoming.
Just being.
I.
Am.
Nothing.
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