Inside the eight-ball
Inside an eight-ball. Not behind one. Actually, inside the black snooker ball, unmarked, flawless, just pure, plain black.
Inside, everything changes. There are no seams, no corners, no up, no down. Contrary to popular belief, the interior is not hard shiny black as is the outside, but soft, deep, welcoming and warm. In fact, the interior is ourselves.
Can’t sleep? Having trouble shutting down your mind? Do plans and thoughts and memories race to the finish line inside your mind, jostling each out of the way to be first to be foremost.
Imagine nothing? Focus on nothing. Think entirely about nothing. No thing. Not. A. Thing.
Or, since that is patently impossible, since the instruction “think” is an instruction “do” which instantly fills our minds with the infinite options of thinking... petals, waves, falling towers, changing seasons, birds, babies being born, people fighting, fences being built and crumbling, weather patterns, my itchy foot, the sock that feels twisted, my next adventure, what’s for dinner?, when are the parents visiting, that’s a ladybug! The list never ends in our monkey minds.
So. Get in your eight-ball and chill out.
Think about it. Just it. That soft, welcoming, almost touchless sensation of floating in utter calm in the midst of black. No light, no sparks, no sound, no nothing. No THING. Think about it.
When I was a child and couldn’t sleep, my Dad would tell me to think about a black velvet box. Actually, I have no idea if that’s what he really said, that’s what I remember. Now I’ve gone one step further, removing the straight planes, the seals, the up and down, the joins between the sides. Inside the eight-ball there’s nothing but rolling contentment. Black, featureless, gentle, even, peaceful peace.
Come and hang out in the eight-ball with me some time.
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I was born. A whole pile of stuff happened and continues to do so...