Close your eyes and repose in the space of not meditating; the deepest samadhi is simply to watch.

Your gaze is bigger than anything you gaze upon; this is absolution and remission of sins.

So watchfully silent you see not only the mind inside you, but the world inside you, happening, happening; hug that.

Hug the madness of all thought, every simultaneous opposite mind-spark partnered with its darkness, every doubt fear worry rage craving tasted as unlabeled electricity.

Float amidst entangled nots of yes no never untied exquisitely twist-twirling fractal-lusciously free in an effervescent mirage of fragrant silences.

Unsolve and triumphantly abandon all dilemmas in the space where countless Yes’s rest on a single irreproachable No.

These wave-particle neuron-thought dichotomies, misfired as little sparks of me, dissolve when merely let-allow-go with laughter.

Past-future anxiety bombs bursting in aerial ideas the infinitesimal orgasms of toxic neuro-peptides, fire-flushed, expanding this embodied God to full-statured cruciform paradox, your Christ.

Clustered galaxies at play in a womb of stars, your Body.

Ten trillion sub-nuclear phosphorescent choices unchosen shouting So what! So what!, each a sparkling path of return to sunrise on the choiceless ocean of possibility, your Mind.

The gaping emptiness of perpetual approach, the asymptote of the probable not realized, dead upon arrival, your I.

For arrival is collapse, a singularity that starts all over again. Perfection is a mistake. It doesn’t matter what you choose. Even your darkest pain is made of light.

What bubbles out of sea-foam, ineluctable electron-flux, is none of your business, Venus or not. So what if one void-quivering neutrino popping Yes from No becomes a world? The future is none of your business.

In the beginning, before that, not yet, your busy-ness? It doesn’t matter what you choose. Just bubble up and do.

Probability of songs without a singer. First and last chants of chaos. Alphomega muse of random beauty. One sound.

Tinturnnabulations of silence turn Words worthless under this Planck’s constant seafoam, threshold of God’s zeroing mouth, where bubbles of babble bespeak the vacuum in recurrent murmurs of mantric chaos, ghost electrons in the void, a virtual world in-whirled, churning chants into illusory threads of liquid logic, congealing thought, dense now, hardened to belief, massed, outspoken in stone cathedrals.

O Random Goddess, dissolve me into what I am. Back to mereness of so-ham, so-what, a flower bowing loamward to its om-seed. No thought.

Abandon languid leaves of Summery mind-play to Autumnal hushes, breathing rumors of mist and dance; let Fall, let sink, relinquishing green opposites, and grace me down.

Whitely rooted in night, enwombed and mother-sung by Winter’s all-unknowing, energy of gentleness suck I, milk from your umbilical Am.

In the beginning no matter but magic, incantatory wicca-woven God-spells, atoms sent whirling by Word. Who sings? It doesn’t mother matter, does it now?

World weaver, weave me. We spell each other in perpetual beginnings. Music from the matrix of zeros. Random chants. Just bubble improbability up and do.  

What doesn’t matter. Mother will still love you. Selah.

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