The end begins like this: The self, etched like a delicate line of frost across a clear and deep expanse, pauses by the power of will, and is held by grace until a tinkling bell of light, robed in clearest white, melts all thought in sight. What seemed a sense of lack, a darkness so compact, reveals a Golden Find at last.
Yet, what is the source of that? He asks.
The mind wracks itself to explain, rises even higher to remain, and finds a Dazzling Dark that contains all the worlds in its reign. A blackness on high, a thundering stillness to the eye, a world of gods, another land, holding All in its hand.
Yet, what is the source of that? He asks.
The minute unwraps its plenitude, eternity unfurls its grasp, and serenity lets go its mask, while all that ever is or was or will be succumbs to infinity. The sense of dreaming drops, and the rhythm, the everlasting rhythm of being, stops.