that I am the mystery, not a story told apart from this but belonging fully to it all, no less than infinite in my own swirl of particles giving form, as well as the embrace of emptiness that holds it. This isn't something coming from a vast depth of nothingness - no, it's an alive capacity in constant becoming of self and worlds and galaxies. I retain my nothingness, at no point am I set solid against the spaciousness that allows me, it's all more seamless and subtle in its grace. And here than is the mystery - that I am at all, with no call for this to be other than some creative urge now expressed in wonder, somehow finding myself aware of the briefness given to my distinction, a fragile hold to self, and that the vastness that surrounds me will again claim me as its own. This mystery, unfolding now as my appearance...
~
Peace,
Eric
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