We have pushed being to the ends of our fingertips, canceling its outward reach. We grasp forever in the darkness, not stopping at daybreak, hoping to possess this or that fragment, to invest into this or that vessel some likeness by which we can then appropriate the whole back into our being. We renounce that which resists us, that which didn't want us anyway; namely, an object inside of consciousness which we suppose is also responsible for consciousness. We feel, with the passions, a sense of eternal privation and mistake this for the emotive force, the dynamic will driving all phenomena. But in succumbing to such privation, by riding its current, knowing that final satiation will never come but that death will only cancel it, we create systems of death, ideologies of death, whole religions of death which offer up little beyond a promise that thirst will be quenched beyond the moment of death.
But there is no such satiation. There is no return to that which was; no entering back into the garden. We have only to go forward, to cancel identification with a limit.
We are possessed by the great sense of privation that we've created in the vacuum of limitless potentiality. Instead of creating a holy palace within that silent space, we've gone running into it, hoping to hit a wall, hoping to trace its perimeters, hoping that there is some means to measure it which will reflect our own strength back to us. But we keep wandering, afraid that a door will shut behind us, separating two planes of infinity: one which stretches forever forward and one which stretches ever backward but which is no longer reachable.
To reach The Divine is to associate oneself with the space of possibility, to let impotence be, not the measure of what one lacks, but the most sure means of reifying potency. One is unflinchingly honest with oneself, thinking without fear and pressing through illusion, ever drawing life from the realm of possibility. One communicates with the divine when one learns to trust what one can ascertain in the very space where impotence can witness its own incongruity in the face of what is more potent. What is more potent, in the end, cannot be a simple totem or object in the world, for all such objects are themselves impotent in relation to those forces which are moved to action by that which does not move.
What doesn't move wears the mask of what does. It lets so many temporary winds spin around it and dissipate. One finds oneself alone, staring at a heap of so much that it felt necessary to cast aside for the sake of seeing just how raw life can be, just how much it would demand of us if we were to challenge the vacancies lying at the heart of so many vessels of value. Objects which once danced eternally around the space of possibility are frozen by our very wish to witness reality like an unmoving point. We fail to see it in flight because we are not willing to let go and see all phenomena in its most natural position. Were we to do so, we would become one with The Divine, canceling our impotent need to wade ever further into the space of our privation to find more objects to possess, and would, rather, embrace the view from high up, where all is small and passes quickly which is not the ground of the rest. We become one with The Divine when we, ourselves, become spaces of possibility, rather than objects which constantly try to appropriate other objects. Nothing can be stolen from one who has given all as a free gift and accepts all without scruple. Nothing can disturb the silence which hums eternally with every possible note.