On Solubility
It is important when free-diving this plane not to confuse the element of surprise with what for millennia has been referred to as trepidation. In the human condition, or its synthesis, the dolphin-logic (parallel to our own in ways not yet fully realized) is not applied, nor is it encapsulated in the environment. Be this as it may, the breathing that occurs at this time is subtle, varied and describable only to those who have seen past what is given for knowledge. Learned as such, broken and re-composed it now emerges from that cocoon-like state the Atlanteans (our progenitors) considered basic to life itself. How can this be?
   Similar to the vernal equinox, and in some ways tribal, it can only be explained as the first and truest of all thoughts. The Siddartha in his wanderings found it so indeed. Also, when questioned thus, he was wont to reply, "Likewise it can be only reached by reaching in as one reaches out." The same can be said for a child, small yet significant, trusting yet hungry, plump yet not forever.
   The basis of human thought forms thusly: in for all things not known, out for the functions still unassumed, and randomly for the mirroring of the soul and its counterpart, the scorpion. But beyond these doctrinal certainties lies the realm of all we hope for. Can it be seen?
   Tragically, yes, but only in its simplest form, shadow and certain shades of green. The Bab explained it in simpler, yet not necessasarily more abundant terms, as the difference between what is real and what can only be refuted. The Persians knew this to be the case, and his words, translated from that ancient tongue, still cause us to marvel and despair, "To see with all eyes the mystery and never glimpse the question; to fly to heaven and forget the way back, losing, groping blindly, then finding solace in the moment. Oh destiny, why call you my name? Why stop you here? No place will be found for you, no supper, no fireside comforts. The pot is cold. Go home."
   Of course we sense this most passionately in the winter months, the season of musings. Is it merely coincidence we greet Christmas at this time, purple in the lips, arms akimbo and drifting, lapping at the edges of the collective consciousness of ages past? Is it from this we run, shudder and seek redemption? Or are we merely darting into traffic, hecklers, vagabonds and stubborn, like the innocence of criminals' children? Most assuredly not! Yet many will say that it is so.
   This is the warning then that we should be hesitant to heed. Ascended masters, and those still walking this earth in bodies repleat with functions one could only refer to as bodily, number them seven (7). Coincidence? To those whose eyes are foundering, yes. To those gifted with the insight of generations, the Apache, the Creek, the Blackfoot, the Armenian, this is not even danceable, nor can it be conditioned in charcoal on the walls of sacred places. It melts as soon as it is brought to light, fragile, leaving only pools on the cold, black surface. Arrogance? Hardly, yet when we find it, we taste what only those now resting in the 5th domain have experienced, denied the existence thereof, and hidden from our startled eyes. Again, we have only to dream for it to become furniture, symphonic in tone, yet common to the touch.
   But isn't that the purpose? Is not this why we stay up late, not daring to dream those dreams again, cold until morning, waiting for daylight like a bus that goes to none knows where? Hard, careless and spatial is what we've become. Tepid, listless and plausible all our memories, hanging spider-like to what we think we knew but now question.
   It's all about the ocean; those who live in it know these things. You hear their song. You hear them singing, calling you by name in a language you've never heard or long ago forgotten. Can they really fly?

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