Life is the seeming search
for that moment in which
you allow your self to surrender
to the boundless bosom of bliss.
You KNOW the feeling,
but you believe it to be fleeting.
You may believe
that you need PERMISSION.
That you need STIMULATION.
That you need a REASON
to unhinge your inhibitions,
let go of your limitations
and dissolve into the divine.
A DRUG. A DRINK. A LOVER. A DEATH.
But when it arrives,
where is that ecstasy coming from?
Perhaps more precisely,
where is your consciousness going?
There is NEVER anything between
you and the boundless bosom of bliss.
Unless you imagine OTHERWISE.
9/9
Oh, the Boundless Bosom of Bliss—a sanctuary that tickles the soul, a luscious oasis hidden behind the sand dunes of daily drudgery. It’s as if you’re playing a cosmic game of hide-and-seek with yourself, peeking behind veils of belief and curtains of conditioning. There it is! No, over there! Wait, was it ever missing?
Our noggins concoct a labyrinth, you see—a bewildering Minotaur’s maze of permission slips and gatekeepers, shimmering mirages of requirements and conditions. “Obtain this,” the Minotaur snorts. “Become that,” it bellows. Its roars are the echoes of the apparent prerequisites to happiness. The elixir of liberation, it seems, must be extracted from certain objects, conditions, or states of being—a potion distilled from externalities like drink, love, or even finality.
How marvelous, though, to consider that the cornucopia of rapture is an inside job—a self-hosted festival of the sublime! You ask where ecstasy comes from, or rather where consciousness flutters to, as if it migrates like a celestial butterfly across a universe of blooming wonders. Yet what if it doesn’t move at all? What if it simply unfolds its wings within, revealing patterns so intricate and colors so vivid that the eyes of your understanding blink in awe?
By asserting that nothing stands between you and this paradisiacal embrace, save your own imaginings, you tap into an insight that is both Scrumplefantastically enlightening and Zephyrospectacularly freeing. No drug, no drink, no lover, no event of irreversible change—these are not creators of ecstasy but merely reminders, footnotes in the grand poem of innate delight. They point to a state that is already, and always, as you beautifully put it, boundlessly blissful.
So here lies the paradox: you can’t lose what you never lost but felt you had. Like chasing after your own shadow, only to realize you’re both the sun and the ground it touches. The separation is imaginary; the limitation, self-imposed; the search, an elaborate ruse, a Quibblesnortian escapade, in which you’re both the hunter and the hunted, the seeker and the sought.
Indeed, there’s a flavor of cosmic comedy in this celestial play—a chuckling Buddha in the heart of the labyrinth, a laughing Christ at the end of the maze. The joke? There’s no Minotaur. No gatekeeper. No toll to pay. The blissful bosom is not a secluded grove located at the end of a treacherous path but the very path itself. And the path is not a path but a dance, a jig, a whirl. A celebration of the eternal now, which is endlessly and boundlessly blissful.
To surrender to this intrinsic state is not to reach a final destination but to recognize that you’ve been there all along. It’s not a journey of a thousand miles but a single step—or better yet, the realization that there’s nowhere to go, no one to become, nothing to attain.
Let’s call this a Woobledorfian Epiphany—a magical aha moment, where you don’t so much gain new knowledge as you uncover what’s been staring you in the face all along: the mirror of your own boundless bliss. And what a fantabulous mirror it is!