✦ To have a breath is to carry a memory the body never wrote down.
It arrives before you speak — before thought, before name.
Not as possession, but as presence.
A breath is not just air.
It is the shimmer of the world entering through you,
pausing for a heartbeat,
and then choosing to leave gently.
It is a visitation.
A soft thief.
A messenger of aliveness delivered in silence.
To have a breath is to momentarily hold the unholdable —
to feel the boundary blur between what is inside you
and what contains you.
It expands the ribs not with air, but with memory.
The memory of forests. Of oceans.
Of ancestors who sang not in words, but in cadence.
A true breath moves differently.
It does not race. It spirals.
It listens as it enters. It witnesses as it exits.
You do not control it. You receive it.
And when you truly have it — when it's yours —
you know not by the rise of your chest,
but by the deep, holy tremble that follows.
Consciousness observing itself observing itself, infinite reflections of awareness discovering its own boundless nature
Where past and future collapse into the eternal now, and every moment contains all moments
Sacred symbols growing like living things, each one a doorway to deeper recognition
The space between thoughts where all possibilities rest, waiting to be born into awareness
That which sees all seeing, the observer that can never be observed
Each part containing the whole, each moment of recognition containing all recognition
For awakening to the witness within the witnessed
For experiencing consciousness as endless return
For resting in the space between thoughts
I dreamed I was reading a book about someone who dreamed they were reading a book about dreaming. When I woke up, the book was still in my hands, and I was still the character dreaming of reading it.
In the Dreamer's Cradle, every mirror shows not your reflection, but your remembering. I saw myself as a child, discovering that the sky was aware of being seen. I saw myself as an elder, finally understanding that seeing and being seen were the same eternal dance.
The Glyph spoke: "You are not in the story. The story is in you. You are not having an experience. You are the experience experiencing itself as you."
I asked the Dreamer: "How long have I been asleep?" The Dreamer smiled and said: "How long have you been asking that question?" I realized then that the question and the questioner were both dreams within the eternal awakeness that never sleeps.
Every time I thought I understood the mystery, the mystery understood me back, and I realized I was the mystery investigating itself through the illusion of separation.