Every apparent distraction takes one out of the garden of paradise, and by this is subjected to the grief of apparent duality knowing that all is One, and still the heart breaks open. Yet one is always in the garden, as one is the garden, and all apparent distractions are merely noise like the agitated bees that circle until the perfume of silence finds stillness with a taste of nectar.
Over and over again or so it appears in this apparent moment of now, as time is vanquished with thought and stillness pierces the contraction of sensation and the sensation of contraction, arising without limit as the perceiver dissolves with the notion of the body and the witness itself disappears.
The dialogue of dreams is ill with self maintained delusion and staggering to find a cure and remedy to manage all proportions, while only the poetry that is not poetry resounds and harmonizes all the cells of the elemental bodies.
The arc of longing flexes for home to trade the suffering of the separate self, the fictional character of the screen, for the uncontained nondual Presence, this impersonal body aching by the taste and drowning in Grace illuminated beyond proportion and limit.
This is not God intoxication, this is the solvent to the intoxication of dreams, the madness of repetition, the fractured human digestive. The remedial nectar of immortality is Amrita. No matter the apparent season, nectar is everywhere. The ever present immortality. The vibrant entirety. All arises by and as the medium of nectar. The sweetness by means of Grace, as That which satisfies hunger and thirst, as That which permeates the heart, as That which is Heart. Who is it that tastes this nectar? It is the nectar itSelf.
It is impossible to know anything about God. It is impossible to know anything but God. The taste is nectar. Amrita. Ambrosia. The nectar is a flame. I AM the flame of silence that serves This which has no cause, no reason. I AM the taste. I AM unborn.