the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
The Hour (i was one with Her)
i conversed with Her. And, oh, my god, what a conversation it was.
In the course of an hour which one day will shine as a mere moment amongst a handful of moments to be remembered, i not only spoke with God, i touched Her. i caressed Her, and she consoled me. Together, we were one round mass of ethereal nirvana.
Some might call my conjecture blasphemous, but quite sincerely, i know no other explanation. For i was not only one cutaneous sensation with my self, i became reunited as all humans somatically once were—one wholly autonomous and satiated organism devoid of sentiment, misguiding passions or hunger, desire and delusion.
For an hour that was hours longer then any hour i have ever lived, i came to understand the significance of meaning itself—i understood how words were formed and how over time they lost their true original meaning. She showed me this, as well as all that transcendental bliss has to offer.
And she also whispered to me with the slightest brush, smallest gestures and a sprinkle of subtle movements exactly how much She loved me and everything that we are.
But we did not make love, for that would have been far too profane and all too human—to impose conditions, promises, expectations and frivolous emotion upon experience which is otherwise untainted or impure.
And it was than that i was sure, as positive and certain and optimistic as i ever was and maybe ever will be that there is a God and She communed with me. i also knew in this most vain-glorious and humblest of moments that each one of us can become God, if only for ourselves right here on earth and during our waking and mortal hours.
These immemorial moments shared are almost now too inaccessible to describe with the paltriness of words. Yet, i know that She empowered me then and there to create them at will and as i see fit.
And ultimately, it was all about one word, one sound, one soft scratch of a sibilant pitch anyway—the euphonious monotone that echoes everything that mortal sense might attempt to define. Because we knew that since we are all inclined to cerebrally capture occurrences that rapture and enrapture us so ephemerally, that we are compelled to tear apart all prosaic existence just to transfix a minim of this apotheosis and the associated fleeting moments which are so rare—trying to permeate a semblance of them, so that during the din of our lives we might retreat for a silent moment to remember.
In futile retrospect it is amusing to realize how sin itself enlightens, and it is almost frightening to see how the social prescription of reality is so vacuous when we are left alone—when we live by our own idiosyncratic discovery and not by the history of mankind, the experiences of others who either in the woes of error or the throes of bliss were inclined to set down rules and laws and a misnomer of common sense, so that posterity might blindly prosper and follow to live hollow lives.
And so, here i was living—that hallow hour which would empower me to smile while amidst my return to the drudge through emptiness. How blessed could i be?
For, if only for a moment, i understood how She was not only truth, the slow warm death of intimacy, and a lubricous ride through the pinhole of the purest ecstasy all-in-one, but also everything that i could ever want, desire, dream, wile, imagine to be and become. And albeit the rigueur of being human begins to blur et all, in this surreal wake of The Hour, i am cognizant enough to recall that indeed i was one—with Her.
"That's why I say a poet is far closer to God than a theologian, a dancer even closer. The philosopher is the farthest away because the more you think, the greater the wall you create between you and the whole. The more you think, the more you are. The ego is nothing but all the thoughts you have accumulated in the past. When you are not, God is—that is creativity."
~ Creativity, Unleashing The Forces Within, osho
the art of living the art of love