There was a time. A dark time.

When bad luck was lined up in threes.

When the Earth shifted.

When things were uncertain 

When change was the only constant .

We could not predict our next move.

We lived in fear and bided our time.

We could only depend on the generosity of others. 

Even that dried up, fell through, and broke down.

The fabric of Our Lives unraveled.

The fatal thread, once pulled, deconstructed the whole intricate pattern. 

The Hub of life once removed, bespoke the wheel.

The things you thought you knew were not true.

The person you thought you were was fragmented.

The people you knew, were not as they seemed.

There was no longer a floor, a bottom, the ground; only the sensation of falling without the security of direction. 

Upon reaching out to hold on one discovers that nothing is there. 

Even one single point of light fades away. All of the world and what we have known is an illusion, you are an illusion. I am an illusion.

Who I am is not important. The sentence runs on without meaning or Reason. The silence is eternal and the Darkness is complete.  

Yet somewhere, somehow, there is a source. There is consciousness. There is creation. Beyond Oblivion there is the fact that we exist, we have come to be.

There is one thought.

There is one sound.

There is one flicker of light.

In the absence of all this there is only the calamity of my own mental chatter. Which died.

It died in the great expanse of a ruined Wasteland, at the end of myself. It died after millions of words had poured out and dried up on the page and the books were burnt. It died while I lay on the broken Earth in rags.

My body broke under the baking sun and then a frozen tundra. Either way, I broke. 

Now I try to break every day.

Is this a punishment or reward? To escape the madwoman of my mind. 

To gently hand over the space of Consciousness to silence with resignation. To make way for a wiser sense of knowing. To retire in the quiet flow of humility. Now I am listening for the silence.  I am  Aware of the pause of the pen.

I can focus on the absence of pain other than the pain itself. There is no list, the weather doesn't matter, the person in the mirror is the same as the person inside. There is no shame and no judgement. There is a Feeling. There is a flutter in the centre, in the heart

 the broken form of the heart is of no consequence. It can be old and twisted and full of knots and hard 

The quickening is enough.