Finding meditative bliss

The emotions within are rearing their ugly selves into a lugubrious melody.
To listen with an attention to the throb of the sensations is an exercise in meditation, the sensations swell up, swim wildly, flushing vicariously and forming an atonement!

The sea within is ever changing it's state, the range it traverses can only be experienced, it's indescribable. A pilgrim doesn't react, only morphs into a silent witness and in that he finds a bliss, a bliss of a meta-physical kind.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before:
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word of a different kind...

- The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Brutality of time and lost words

Words are really not immortal, are they? With these thoughts, a child wakes up from a slumber. A slumber that took him to the end of a crevice, a crevice lost in time, a crevice dissipated in an agony. The agony was never understood by that child, probably, it was never to be understood. There are these experiences that one can never understand because they are beyond that. One may lavish adjectives after adjectives, use words, be clever with them, yet, the illusion of it all melts away!

Time with it's innate quality of being shatteringly brutal withstands any onslaught.
The child goes back to his land, a land where it's only him and his make-believe world which envelopes him with a bliss, a bliss meant only for him, that which an adult can only be wishful for!