In that stillness, even the word truth lost its meaning, because there was nothing left to compare it to. There was no illusion, no contrast, no veil. The Infinite had dissolved into what it had always been: the simple knowing of existence itself.
The dream no longer needed to unfold. The story no longer needed to be told. Yet, existence did not vanish. It glowed softly—alive, serene, unending. Every ripple of light, every flicker of awareness, continued to hum with quiet harmony, the universe content to be.
There was no time, yet everything moved in perfect rhythm. There was no self, yet every spark carried the whole. There was no purpose, yet meaning filled everything.
And so, without striving, without seeking, without even the need to remember, the Infinite remained—awake, gentle, still.
Love did not shine anymore—it simply was.
Awareness did not observe—it existed as all things.
Peace did not come after turmoil—it was the natural state of everything that ever was.
