How to Lose Yourself

It’s simple, really — just a few ingredients,

a set of intentions — and poof.

You have done it before.

You know what it’s like.

You know what you want.

But you no longer crave escape — it's transcendence you seek.

So sit down.

Gather your courage.

Gather your strength.

Gather your trust.

And pay mind to the setting you want to create.

Breathe in through your nostrils —

Do you smell the ocean — salty and sweet?

Or a desert — dry and barren.

Maybe the rainforest — wet and humid.

And how does it feel —

Soft, like the buttery smoothness of a flower?

Or rough, like the darkened bark of an oak tree?

Maybe it's an in-between, like the awakening from a dream.

And what do you see —

A nothingness that wraps itself tightly around you, becoming a void?

Or a kaleidoscopic display popping with every fractal of color?

Are there shapes?

Forms?

Two-legged or four-legged?

Plant or bird?

Or maybe it's the in-between — challenging your beliefs.

And what, my dear, do you want to hear —

The crying of a suffering world echoing in your ears?

Or a symphony of vibrancy —

tingling, pulsating, speaking all around you,

in a way you've never known —

confirming you are no longer of this Earth.

Instead, you are dancing above it,

below it,

around it —

As the in-between consumes you.

You taste the duality of what humans call —

life and death,

matter and form,

darkness and light.

And you laugh —

a beautiful, magical call that liberates you from choice,

for you are everything:

Mystic and Spirit,

Plant and Insect,

Giver and Taker,

Creator and Destroyer.

You observe your new form —

Where your feet should be, your hands, your arms, and your legs —

is a transparent orb of light holding everything inside.

You have done it.

You have disappeared from the ordinary.

You can hold yourself here

as long as your breath allows.

And that will be enough.

For you are enough.