Would this world collapse if we all opened our eyes at the same time? Would the scaffolding fold? Would the wings of butterflies drop from the sky like so many leaves, gold, spiraling from trees in the winds of September? I try to imagine how it would feel, all of us together, realizing. The bliss is immeasurable, and the vision fades quickly. One look into the stone-cold eyes of a player entranced by the play, and there goes the moment. But still, I do it again. Over and over, with an eye to the light streaming through the sky, threading our chakras into the fabric of formless reality. The seams can’t hold. But somehow the light exists, in filaments superbly strung, one soul to the next, around the world, throughout the cosmos, beyond this imagination, into wordless dreamscapes, floating, flying, feeling without falling. It’s all so much. But not too much for the willing and the free. On we go, together, into the possibilities.
The Winds of September
