It's keeping yourself on the alloted trail,
Like a group of spikes pertruding from your hiking shoes.
Hidden underneath bleak chances to run off course,
There is traction.
It's the higher sense of letting go,
Like a swell from the waters of slightly unsecured mentality.
Stationed right above the need for grounding.
There is ascension.
It's the spurt of clarity, intense maturity,
Like a smith of fine silver, molding his first ring.
Seeing what might be, and generating the material.
There is illumination.
Its understanding the material is but a spec of truth.
Like something without beginning,.. without end.
Immortal, appearing mortal,
But, sincerely niether
There is perfection.
That is what you are.
Settle your head, slow your breath and take a moment,
take a few and listen to the sound of your body.
Slowly close your eyes and marvel at the shapes snaking their
way across your inner lids; watch them paint the room
within a room as they pulse; fading and then leaping back in time -
a strobe diminishing with every slowing beat, eventually melting to static.
Breathe slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth.
Squeeze your knuckles tight and then relax once again. Focus on the
wave of tension momentarily created, coursing like lightening
up your arms and back, to your shoulders, your neck, and then feel it
dissipate as you exhale, spreading new energy to every nerve in your body.
Now open your eyes and find yourself
in a shell.
This is what it feels like to be ready.
This is where you need to be if you mean to begin.
This is clarity.
— The End —