The Disappearing Self

On plateau, the view is everywhere, and makes the body stretch to meet it. Something calls, beyond the railroad far away, beyond the storm clouds over there. And in its shy defining, there is restlessness. The earth is waiting for reply, and that unspoken; words are blasphemy. The towering sky embraced is that assent to journeying. The rich embodiment of shadow worlds becomes the chariot. Identity cuts loose, the mind aflight mounts higher on the stair of consciousness. Something stirs where sense transcended molds itself around awakening, arresting doubt, and recreates reality. The appetite is gone, the interchange of science left behind, and time is meaningless. That which remains is of a new creation, whirling as the nebulae, but infinite beyond that which an "I" might probe, for that has faded too. The reach is far away, into awareness quite beyond enlightenment, quite beyond the power of being whether man or God to bless or to ordain. It rides upon my breath, upon the mystery that waits just past the will—indeed it is that I, though bound in wonderment, am nowhere to be found, and lost within an ecstasy I'll never understand. ~ (as always, severe critiques are invited, encouraged, and appreciated)