I see the light. I did not create it.

I see the light. I did not create it.

I hear the wind, the music, the rain, the thunder, the chirping of birds, the sighing of my wife in the night.

These sounds exist without my awareness, or with them.

The olfactory bliss of flowers, on trees or bushes, in vases or urns; drifting in clouds of incense from censers, bowls, cones or sticks glowing, alight.

Memories recalled, recent and ancient, of the soul, of the primordial mists.

Is this where Truth begins?