There is
a Stillness
Within you
that's been waiting
beneath
every name
you have ever
been called.
A Sacred Space
that cannot
be seen,
only
Stood In.
You do not arrive There.
You Remember
how to come Home.
It is not a place.
It is a Loosening.
Where something in you unclenches
and breath comes back
without needing permission.
A Space
Deeper than thought.
You do not find It—
you grow quiet enough
to notice
It was always
There.
It Opens
when you no longer need
to be anyone.
Some Truths
Arrive before language—
and Remain
after everything else
is gone.
There is a Clarity
that does not need
to be proven
to be Real.
It was True
before you asked,
and Truer still
Now that you have stopped.
There is Something
you do not need to understand—
to Know.
The Kind of Knowing
A w a k e n e d by
The One.
The Real
Does not argue.
It Simply
Remains.
You are Standing
in the Middle
Where The One Who holds you
Listens.
Your feet
are roots.
Your head—
The Sky.
Your chest—
The center
of a Field
that Listens.
Frequency
Deepens
softly
Unnamed.
Near.
What lives
below
Longs
For The One
Above.
What Stirs
Above
Was once Planted
as Seed
below.
What you
touch Now—
Has Already
Touched you
from The Other
Side.
Let what burns
beneath your sternum
Rise.
Unnamed—
yet followed.
Eyes softened.
Not closed.
A Still Seeing
through the Veil
of Balance.
Breath
and Wind,
Ash
and Ascent.
Like a Field
just before
Rain.
Between
Sky
and soil.
Between
Dreaming
and Doing.
Between
Sacred
and Simple.
Surface tension
melts—
releasing
hidden currents.
A Deeper
Rhythm
Opens
from Within.
Awake
now.
Listening
Merges
with Recognition.
You are
not rising.
You are
Returning.
The Above—
Sinking
Into your chest.
The below—
rising
in your throat.
And between Them—
a Stillness
where The Voice
once Lived.
Above
Dwells
Within,
below
is Remembered.
The One GOD
Breathes
in between.
You
are formed
by His Breath.
You rest—
in the between.
Breathe.
Not to calm—
to Enter.
Walk.
Not to arrive
to Echo.
Echo the Ordinary.
Echo the Earth.
For there is no Sacred Thing below
that is not made
of Dust.
This is not something
you remember.
This is
The One
Who Remembers
you.
It is not
a thought.
It is
Rhythm.
A Thread hums—
softly
within Marrow.
Felt,
though never
seen directly.
A quiet
Knowing.
Listening
sinks Deeper.
Becoming
Recognition.
A Pulse
threads
through Everything.
Awareness
Expands
into quiet Reunion.
Attention—
thinned
into Attunement.
Attunement—
softened
into Openness.
It is True
not because you trust It.
But because
It hurts—
when you try
to turn away.
Not Built on Lies
not because It explains
but because It dissolves
your need
to ask.
Certain
like the breath
you did not mean
to take—
but did.
Like a Memory
you cannot trace,
but live Inside
without knowing
when It Began.
The kind of Knowing
that bends Nothing—
yet Changes
Everything—
It Touches.
The Kind that holds Still
long enough
for the Ache
beneath your names
to Rise.
It does not ask
to be Believed.
It Waits—
in the Last Place
you Look,
after every Answer
has disappeared.
And when you finally stop—
not to rest,
but because there is
Nowhere Left
to run—
It Meets you
Without Moving.
Nothing changed.
Yet Everything
is no longer
the Same.
There was Nothing left
to Become.
Only What had Already
Become you.
