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This Is A Story About Love

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I am not a tree; I am a revolving person, she thinks.

The girl looks up at the sky.


She breathes in and sees in.


In a flash she glimpses the infinite, the limits of the finite brain. She sees that outside her brain, there is more.

The girl with pigtails inhales deeply.


As she inhales the limits and the restriction of her strivings are dissolved.


She releases blames and with love the utter futility of it all becomes comprehensible.


The girl breathes in the wonder of it all.


Her mind expands, marveling at the feeling in her brain of the infinite, locked into a beautiful conscious paradox that only awareness of a greater reality, of which her brain is not a part, ushers her into her limitlessness, of what is not her.


The endlessness within can only be found in the greater reality.

Her mind bolts, jumps into the material, that which is felt.


She feels the bones inside her, the organs, the life. She senses brains and sinews of people around her in this city, in that country, in the world. She senses the bacteria, the movement, the peristalsis. Minds ticking over, sometimes relentless, sometimes breathing, sometimes silent.


The tree opposite is swaying in the wind. It sways as if breathing, constantly moving. And just then, everything moves in union, the whole world over.


Just beyond where she sits, thousands of ants in the colony. Countless ants, all over the world.


The whole world is heaving in unison, people and animals and objects and love and anger and hate. Like a ship filled to the brim, overflowing with ripened life.


Here she is too, right in the middle of life. Or is it the edge?


She has exhaled.


When she inhales again she breathes in the nothingness in time between when she lived and the ancestors before her.


How funny it is, she thought, my ancestors are here relative to time; and time itself is relative. Time is short, it's long, it's circular.


She looks inwards and sees that the groaning, heavy, sticky life force that surrounds her contains all the seeds of that which is to come, all the aching, urgent, compulsions of creation which embrace all that has been created, creates this moment, creates all future moments, for all infinity.


There is no present, there is a present. The present is what there is. Yet it is created in the mind, an historical object.


She breathes out and feels what is known as love.


This deep feeling, this love, this knowing, this security in all that she is, ever was, ever will be. The joy in it all, the love of the world, the wonder of it all. Love feels like a warm blanket and a summer breeze all at once.


It all feels so familiar, so familiar and then she is almost jolted out if it. But it is another flash in her mind. It breezes in, a remembrance of her temporariness.

The voice- so soft, so clear– says, you are not here forever, you don’t know when you will be called. She smiles inside and sighs at the weight and freedom of the recognition.


She is a soul in the world.


The girl with pigtails is there, she is floating up, catching wafts of earth. Her soul conceives the infinite, breathes in and out, bathes in its own being. It is love and it is light, she is love and life, drifting upwards, infinitely.

(c) Ariella Berger. All rights reserved. The characters in this story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. With the exception of sharing a direct weblink to this post, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted electronically or mechanically, including my photographic means and recording, information management storage and retrieval, without permission in writing from the author. Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement will be pursued.

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