prose: the moment is home
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| Loie Fuller 1862 – 1928 American |
The moment is home.
This realisation brings me to tears. the
couple laughing, their mouths chalky with coffee and cold air. Turkish friends
chat amongst cake and crumbs. A child on its highchair throne lapping the
attention, licking her lips. It’s an autumn warm day, the sun shines scrumptiously,
knowing she’s a tease.
It doesn’t matter I was taught love by its
absence, at least I am being taught. It doesn’t matter that I live amongst a
mouse, a Tunisian family, an old ill man with his old drunk friends, I am
living. This moment is home, and the realisation is divine.
The moment is home. No angels, spirit guides, higher powers,
psychedelics. No voices, Ouija boards, tin foil hats. No oracle cards, tarot
cards, masonic hand movements, trance states, shamanic rituals. No astral
travel, telepathy, rune readings.
The moment is home and to be aware of this , is a state of
bliss.
Just as the white light contains all the colours, i am the rainbow, refracted and reflected. I am the white God light, yet i am not.
knowing nothing, being everything.
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