First Meditation
An ancient hermit delves deep into the heart of a thick forest painted with a plethora of shades, some dark, others bright. Much like the plants that surround the hermit, one grows just as easily in the graces of the shadows as opposed to the holistic light. The hermit rests his hands gently upon his knees taking in the beauty of his surroundings, the falling leaves dimming in the sun, the gentle stream that trickles past old standing rocks. He takes a deep inhale, the deepest he has ever mustered, and all the beauty turns to black, for the meditation has begun. The sound of the wind kissing his ears fades, the feeling of his hands numbing into nothingness, and time turns to steam evaporating from conscious awareness. Moments become arbitrary, time and its wonderful linear illusion have no place in here, where physicality melts away and all that remains is himself. Only when all has dematerialized into nothingness can the work begin the dissection of phenomenology. Much like the spawn of the universe, this hermit sits in, nothingness must find a way to reverse itself into everything. It becomes clear to the hermit, as he only allows thoughts to create themselves, that consciousness is merely a sign that the universe is aging. The universe begins with perfect consciousness, free from all weight and burdens. The great expansion stretches the cosmos past its limits, and from the blood of its wounds lesser beings inherit sentience. The hermit is one of these lesser beings, a leech sucking the blood from the ultimate wounds. The defragmentation of all, eaten alive by the hungry souls that are not competent enough to deal with such divinity, this is the nature of mortal existence. All comes rushing back to the hermit, it is now autumn and sepia leaves rest upon his body, for the mediation is over.
If you enjoyed this short story feel free to check out my latest boo ‘Void Around Sunlight’ by A.M. Kent
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