There is only the intensification of realness.
This intensification can take us wherever it wants but all it cares to do is show us more and more realness.
Perhaps it will be in boredom as much as ecstasy, in pain, or in quiet harmony. But the point is the realness.
And there is only one direction for us, on and on and on, into the realness we go, all the way, into its depths, further and further until we are quite out of sight of ourselves.
All the way into what we thought was death, and in death’s heart we touch the heart of realness.
And as I feel it happening, the sounds go, the voice no longer able to mutter a word, nor the mind a thought,
All that’s left is that fading light through the small bathroom window, its light tinged with the green of my lovely garden,
Realer and realer and realer it gets
Until only essence is left.
Constant Voice 