HIS STORY
Then, again, He knew a perfect stillness.
When He sat alone, He was in deepest oneness, always. When He closed His eyes in self-repose, a most enigmatic dance presented itself to Him; a dance of Time; where the past and the future got animated as players and themselves entertained Him , like performers in a carnival. It had dawned on Him that He was an eternal witness, and thus too, the realisation that the story of all life, was His story.
Life was like a repeated throw of dice, and He knew, somehow the dice rolled from His hand. But He was not always in control of how the dice would roll.This was the interesting thing:
It was a story whose end was fixed, but the journey itself was always unknown; a completely uncharted flight to a known destination. The play seemed to be in the remembrance of the simple knowledge that all would be well by the end. But no one knew when, not even He.
When He sat alone, He was in deepest oneness, always. When He closed His eyes in self-repose, a most enigmatic dance presented itself to Him; a dance of Time; where the past and the future got animated as players and themselves entertained Him , like performers in a carnival. It had dawned on Him that He was an eternal witness, and thus too, the realisation that the story of all life, was His story.
Life was like a repeated throw of dice, and He knew, somehow the dice rolled from His hand. But He was not always in control of how the dice would roll.This was the interesting thing:
It was a story whose end was fixed, but the journey itself was always unknown; a completely uncharted flight to a known destination. The play seemed to be in the remembrance of the simple knowledge that all would be well by the end. But no one knew when, not even He.
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