There is a story as yet unwritten: truth. This story would make the X-Files seem mundane musings. This tale would likely drive most supposedly sane folks beyond the capacity of reason, and would make the disclosure of those government conspiracies and cover ups that indeed exist, from the knowledge of extra-terrestrial visitations to the acknowledgment of the workings of the hidden governing bodies of this world, and even admission of the reality of सिधि (sidhis, "magical powers") seem but trifles to the truth that lies behind these deeper veils. Certain of the worlds mythologies give glimpses, if one has an eye to read between the lines. Stories of gods and goddesses, constructions of earth and heaven and underworld realms give hints of the manner in which reality is (realities are) made and maintained and destroyed, and to the origin and destination of each and all. Yet these all fall short of the subtle and hidden truth that is yet somewhere unreached by all save a few minds, and likely less than a handful understand this true nature of reality, or ब्रह्मन् (brahman,) to use a language more precise, if perhaps still somewhat lacking in the perfect precision that might describe that to which I am eluding.

This truth is not so "terrible," save as it is far from what we are taught and conditioned to believe. These knowledges are not of "heaven" nor "hell," nor any such mundane metaphors. Perhaps more like the still waters of a mountain lake, or the majesty of a mountain, yet not quite nor merely. It is not what most understand as "God," nor can this be reduced to dogma. It might be read as not entirely unlike a लिल (lila, Sanskrit for "divine play"), and yet without acting. Simplicity that would strike dumb our busy world, wisdom that would make the most revered of men and women seem fools.

Light and dark are not even applicable terms to describe that of which I am here endeavoring a feeble and humble attempt to put in words. Resonant with human concepts of good and true and right, yet not encompassed therein, though not breaking with purity. This of which I speak is always already present within each and all, and yet can scarce be grasped, and again, even less easily conveyed in words. Not silence, nor din, though may to some degree be apprehended in solitude, and on occasion in music, both of human artifice and of the song of birds and the wind, rain falling, crickets chirping, waves crashing upon the shore and a rivers rush towards the sea, and even the subtle hum or aum of earth and sky and beyond.
Consider.


Blessings . . .