Fragments of a Song from the Vedic Garden

Kapila o Kapila where is the word, the sound which is the root of all speech?

Listen o Madvi the word is in silence, the silence which is at the root of all sound.

Kapila o Kapila the word is not silence, speech is not silence, then how is silence the root of all sound, in which it is found, the word?

Stillness is the root of the storm, o Madvi, and night is the root of day, the welcoming womb is the root of all life and so, o Madvi, silence is the root of all sound. The word is in silence, in the rest of wordlessness, a rest before rest is conceived. The word is found in nothing but itself and that is the word in itself.

O Kapila o Kapila if the word is in nothing, and the word is itself, in nothing is the word but nothing itself, where is the word then found?

The word is not found in the world, o Madvi, and the world is not found in the word. For one is not one but when one is itself and one is the root of the one.

Kapila o Kapila then what must one seek for all we have known is the word?

Madvi o Madvi the world is itself, and nothing but itself and that is the root of the world. And that o Madvi is that.

**

The Ghost

1

I reached forward to touch her. As my fingertips reached her skin I felt a tingle run through my body, a sort of mild electric current prickling my skin, quickening my heart and pushing my breath. She felt… warm. And soft. And strange. Almost… non-material, as if she was woven of wisps of mani-textured smokes. But real. Yet how? This had to be something extrasensory. Can you have a body of gaseous stuff? Was she a vision? No. Maybe, but she was a feeling. Can you feel a vision? I’ve heard hallucinations are visual. No, but some are… real. Some hallucinations infringe on reality… become real in the moment. Some hallucinations become real, yes. Reality. Some hallucinations are reaity. Some realities are… hallucinations.

They say, if you look into the eyes you can tell a phantom from a person. The phantom has no flicker in the soul. The soul is a fire in the eye. Her eyes burn. They burn right into the core of my being. The essence of my existence feels naked and revealed in her gaze. Who witnesses whom? Who stands before whom for the judgement? Am I her dream or is she my fantasy?

But… she is too beautiful to be real. And why would such beauty form from imagination one such as me? I am not fit to be anyone’s fantasy. I know that, I have known that… always.

Then, it is certain. She is mine. And it is certain she is a fantasy. For, who else would deign to look upon one such as me with those eyes. Those eyes which say… I see you, deep, deep within. And who would let me touch… so, that it quickens my breath and pushes my heart. Away. Away. Away.