Rising On a Bed of Thunder

wings-of-horus

Rising on a bed of thunder. Rising, rising, rising. Setting forth. Rising. Freeing yourself from all constraints. Space-time itself quailing before you, giving way all around you like the frail gossamer net it is. No longer capable of holding you, containing you. Giving way like the flimsy apparition it is. The world fleeing from you so fast on all sides that it seems to be standing still. The atoms and molecules all around you busy shaking themselves to pieces. Shaking, shaking, shaking. Coming apart at the very seams under the roar of our thunder. Molecular thunder ripping the world apart. Like the old tin can it is. Space-time itself is falling asunder. We’re rising on a bed of molecular thunder. We’re setting forth, cutting all ties, casting off all attachments. We’re setting off at last on the Great Journey.

 

Why did we tarry so long? Why did we allow ourselves to be delayed? What were we thinking? How could we have allowed ourselves to get so comfortable? The years slipping by so easily. So comfortably. So very comfortably. So many years. One after another in bland succession. So many years. Year after year – one year so very like all the others. Who notices them go? Who can even tell them apart? The time flies by, as time always does. Time hypnotizes us, it plays with our mind, it lulls us into a trance. The Time Trance. A trance with no ending, a trance that eats up everything in sight. We’re always looking for what lies around the corner. Always the next corner. Always waiting for the next good thing. But it’s a trick, an endless trick. There’s always another corner. Corners give way to corners, in endless succession. There is no next good thing – we’re waiting for something that will never happen. We’re in the Time Trance. We’re waiting for time itself to come to an end and it never does…

 

We’re rising on a bed of thunder. Rising, rising, rising. Rising on a bed of thunder. Setting forth. Cutting all ties. Shucking off the shell that contains us. The wings of Horus opening out. Rising on the wings of Horus. Ascending. Launching ourselves into Eternity. Space-time itself is crumbling around us, like the flimsy apparition it is. It’s disintegrating into fuzzy dots. Dissolving into Catherine wheels of rotating light. The atoms and molecules all around us are busy shaking themselves to pieces, vibrating themselves right out of existence.

 

The door is opening amidst the roar of subatomic thunder and we’re setting forth. We’re unmooring ourselves. We’re undocking ourselves at last. At long last. Why did we wait so long? What was keeping us? And yet the first thing we see, as we cast off our moorings to space and time, is that the atoms and molecules making up this world were always vibrating themselves out of existence. They are forever coming apart at the seams. They’re forever shaking themselves to pieces. They’re vibrating themselves out of an existence which they never had in the first place…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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