The lotus whispers to me. She never says my name, nor does she answer my questions directly, rather she sings a thoughtless song which haunts me. Like the needle pricks of self injection, or the heavy high that follows, sucking me into the carpet to live with the dust and fragments of ceiling tile and flecks of flesh which the humidity has bonded together at the base of the braided strands of fabric.

She blossoms before my very eyes. The lotus stares deeply into my soul. I am clean, radiant, visceral and sober. Her warmth reminds me that while I am singular, and deeply alone in the world, I never want for anything, or for very long. She is a fire of reassurance. This is the way she says softly.

I take no action, for all actions are withdrawn. Those that escape between the relaxed folds of my fingers are immediately regrettable. From the casual greeting, or the kindly reminder of my existence, to the caustic lashing of my tongue and pen. I must remember to be still.

She parts her lips, and in my heart the lotus sings. The song reminds me that this flower has purpose. It is not the food of pack mules, nor the black death of inertia. She is the whimsical voice of truth, a reminder that we do not seek to be nothing, but in letting go we discover the bliss-bestowing treasure which transcends seeing emptiness as lacking anything at all.

Then our feet feel the air moving softly from the space between the heels of our feet, and smooth surface of the floor. I decide where the floor will be, and how my feet shall walk upon it. I am here because I decide to remain. I am present because there is no other time or place.

Upon awakening, I am exhausted from my stillness and the tears from dancing with such great joy all night last night. I am slightly more myself. Ever so softly more liberated. Laughing more easily, and lighter. Much lighter.