- Be extremely present.
- Set inspiring music.
- Set a positive intention. (“This is what I want to experience.”)
- I will appreciate that life is a miracle I get to be part of.
- People are inherently trying to do their best.
- To relax, you may try to:
- Listen to the music beforehand.
- Meditate or do breathwork.
- Observe nature.
Your role is to be a reader, while mine is to construct these words. Inseparably we are one consciousness; one life experiencing itself; one twisted staircase to heaven. In the pages of this groundless story, I, the constructor, will refer to us as we, for we are not distinct entities.
We were born as a shrunken being onto oceanic plateaus. Around us swam sharks. Above us raged storms. Raving waves of the sea took a toll on us. Who were we? We did not seem to remember. Nor did we recall the moment of our death. But little did we know the glorious veil had just been crossed. We were happening. What was unfolding around us shaped our existence… A tenacious hum still rang in our ears.
By pure chance, stray fishermen took us under their soaked yellow raincoats. They fed fish to our starving soul. Goddamn fish!
Soon after, they gave us a name. These letters were a navigator’s label for addressing and handling the ever-present, nameless entity behind. Despite their gum boots, which had holes in the sole, the fishermen embraced us as their own. They became our parents. Sort of.
We learned the sailors’ way of navigating on the seas. Our voyage was turbulent and the ocean rough, but from a boat’s deck it somehow seemed far away. The fishermen clothed us in a yellow raincoat. They still fed us fish. We began asking, for the first time, who were they, really? The more we resembled them; the more we engraved their traditions and patterns of thinking, the more they felt closer to us – to a lone child once born on the seas, trying to make sense of it all.
Flow with the music. This is what heaven sounds like.
We often stood on the boat’s bow, amazed by the world’s wonders. When great hurricanes whirled by, we savored the hammering of our skin. We were at life’s frontline. We did not know a single fear. When the vessel bobbed on the sea, we tied ourselves to a handrail, and when monstrous waves approached, we laughed. We loved how the salt clogged our mouth, would you believe it? Despite the fishermen’s warnings, we lived fearlessly on the boat named Mist Bane, which sounded suspiciously close to an ideology.
One day, our exuberance faltered. The unforeseen adventures were torn apart by an island’s coastline. The Mist Bane was sailed to steady waters, in which she was anchored. The ocean was left behind. Thereby we settled on a hazy coast, which the fishermen spoke of as home.
Our soul still hankered for a voyage – long the fire burned, waned. Until it yielded to the fishermen’s game. The forge that had once emitted heat frazzled to a cold frightened ember.
We developed a framework of understanding. The ocean was subject to charts and journals, said the fishermen. They taught us about lurking dangers in the water. About inconceivable predators that crossed the seas. About horizons that misled sailors into believing a storm was a long way from happening. They spoke of hidden wonders too, but scarcely. Their knowledge felt terribly out of tune. Presence of fear predominated their thinking.
Would our inner musing over exploration be heaved out if their ‘knowledge’ oppressed us long enough? What if it enslaved us? Those questions were worth sacrificing for. The notion of cruising an ocean, where we had felt like a newly engaged bride-to-be, was fading in memory. The treasure we valued the most was lost – a bird’s freedom. Our beloved Atlantis.
We developed a fear of never unshackling from the fishermen’s influence again. We ate their food. We slept in their beds. We attended their schools. A life of disgust. On walls was painted fear. Where lied soil for a hopeless dreamer, we asked, fertile enough to thrive in? In an environment of constant hassle, we had relinquished victory to the fishermen’s central maxim that stated, ‘survival of the fittest, trampled idealists not welcomed!’ We had grown into one of them. Dead pigeons. Almost.
The fishermen fed us fish whose meat was terribly difficult to swallow. Why? Their bones scratched our throat. They stuck like ideologies, and they were painful to wash down, for stomaching them after would be excruciating. Such is the nature of ideology. The fishermen often admonished us for pointing this out. As if deconstructing a belief system meant disobeying traditions.
Well, honestly – it did.
We understood this: All the answers to the most important questions lay inside. We ought not look for them in the outside world. The moment a person stopped contemplating and made a statement, they became trapped inside a stiff dungeon. However, a question was followed by an unwritten line…
The music guides you. Open the door. Let it in.
We knew for a long time that Atlantis had not been a place besieged by water; not buried in the ocean. Those in search of its golden pillars and riches were wailing for amity. Atlantis was quite close. It resided in our hearts and thinking. The throne was here and now. In fact, Atlantis is now appearing as a written text. Deconstruct these lines. Look through the black-on-white metaphors. Feel the author’s intended meaning. You are here. In the Oasis of Harmony. What a genius you are. You have brought yourself to life. There is nothing more fascinating than experiencing this story. Atlantis is the everlasting here! You are safe. You have already made it. You are in heaven. The deeds from yesterday do not conquer the eternity of today. Neither do the possibilities of tomorrow.
From the ocean we had arisen – pure and selfless, born in a storm. We had been the city of Atlantis, a treasure lost to the humankind. Around us had swum frenzied sharks, yet the baby had come unscathed. The waves had valiantly held their ground, striking them over and over again. Why? For the city of Atlantis was about to be lost. The waves had protected us awhile, but the treasure of Atlantis had emerged from underwater; the fishermen had pulled us out. We had developed a human identity. We had forgotten we had been Atlantis. But Atlantis cannot ever be truly lost.
Despite the fishermen’s good intentions, it was never meant for us to wallow under a shelter’s roof. Our home rested on the meandering currents of adventure. Indeed, on that hazy coast we rediscovered our nature. What had felt like a thousand human lives away was now one shore away from transcending. One day, we dared.
“Atlantis!” we called out dangerously as the whirlwind. Straightaway a spark flashed, slashing our throat from within. We rubbed our sleepy eyes and pinched our arm. We swore it had been there, a heaving spark!
“Atlantis!” we rejoiced with great enthusiasm and eyes fixed on the sea. Our voice stirred some leaves, and crickets stopped chirping. Then: Another spark was born. It jumped over a coastal stone a few times before disappearing in sand. Sparks were coming in hordes but dying off before igniting a flame.
“Atlantis!” we formed a tsunamic voice. We awakened to our true nature. Our human-self languished. The ocean answered our call! It began just as light flickering on the horizon. A rust of night, one would say, a sunray escaping the hungry shadows of dusk. Yet it was more.
The sea parted. A clear passage emerged. It was leading us astray from the shore; back to where we had come from. Our yellow raincoat was ripping off, unshackling us from mortal duties. We had accomplished the mission, and now we were coming home. We strode on the oceanic floor… Until the notion of an island faded. There had never been one. There had never been fishermen, nor a boat that had rescued us, nor sharks, nor fear of never unshackling. All there has ever been is the ocean. The ocean is dreaming infinitely many dreams. You are nothing but one of them, one ripple.
You, the beloved Atlantis.