This customary space, consciousness (as you hear
the hiss of evening traffic): a pliable, warped
sphere with membrane boundaries. Sometimes
the activity called thinking permeates
the membrane. And there you are,
situated in a non-view.
Not so much detached as unbounded.
You see a gleam for a while without
knowing or naming it; it isn't gleam.
Utterly receptive perception . . .
You settle into out-settledness.
Sounds. Blurs. What is there
enwraps you loosely like
the lightest fabric. There's
the merest hint of, well,
forever (as you hear the
hiss . . .)
Hans Ostrom, 2012