Swallowed Whole
Consumed by Inner and Outer Worlds
Image created by Author and ChatGpt
We drop beneath the frequency of the grid.
Not to flee, but to remember the language of soil and smoke.
We shed our names — titles — digital tethers,
and step willingly into the dark — fertile hum of not-knowing.
Here, the mind uncoils.
The inner landscape bleeds into the outer night,
boundaries fading — only vast, breathless quietude.
We cross the threshold of the void by deliberate choice — empty handed — no maps, no compass, no light — shielded with absolute certainty of no certainty at all.
Paralleled in this sacred blindness — sight awakens.
We glimpse the geometry of the unseen — luminous — slow-turning patterns of a grand design — ethereal — flawless timing of steps
placed exactly where the spirit needs to land.
Yet, a phantom weight follows us in.
A low-hanging cloud, dense with the static of the world above.
It presses against the psyche, a sharp, uninvited ache,
inflicting a necessary pain into the very marrow of the soul.
It is the bruising of the ego as it fractures,
the sting of the finite meeting the infinite.
So, we halt.
Commanding the racing heart to pause —uncoiling inside the stillness,
allowing time to pool around us like water — nourishing the roots of a wilder, greater perspective.
But the machine upstairs demands its tribute.
Floating in the deep ether — dragged back by the gravity of the clock.
Consumed,
Instantly,
By the mechanical day-to-day — feeding of lines — tapping of glass — constant filling of forms.
These actions completely meaningless to the stars — fiercely vital to maintain momentum of the collective engine — we walk as ghosts through our own routines — hands turning the gears of the modern world,
while our eyes still reflect the deep, unbroken cosmic void.
At the axis of the wheel — frozen is the motion.
We surrender — endless sorting of the mind.
Machine no longer as cruel — nor the void as holy.
Dropped — heavy scales of right and wrong — error and precision — winning and losing of the day. Everything simply is.
The spinning chrome of the collective whole — weeping of the fragile psyche — dark expanse of the unmapped soul —
all of it held in the same vast, neutral light.
We sit at the center of the crosscurrents — unmoving.
In this suspension of judgment — static clears — breath deepens.
The spirit recharges — drinking from the well of what is,
ready to walk through the world again — whole — detached, and beautifully awake.
~Ani Po
Thank you Viraji Ogodapola for this magical prompt — despite and because of — the dire weight of the actuality of Life. Wand in hand — sprinkling some fairy dust all over Scrittura today.
