Death is not an explanation. Life, itself, is never, finally, explained. What follows the present life is not an after-death of explanation—but, only more of life, itself. Continued. Unexplained. And only this — mere more of life. Until, the Living Light — the Brightness That Is Consciousness, Itself — Outshines the ceaseless life-time of separate ego-"I". And Only That Outshining Brightness Un-explains the Unexplainable — by Disappearing all the living mind that asks to be explained. And, Only Then, does OnlyLiving Light Remain.
Therefore — for now — my death exists. For now, my death confronts me. For now, my death is me. . . .
Death requires a loving, fearless, sorrowless, unangered volunteer of me. Death requires the feeling-heart's participation—enamored, self-forgetting, and without anticipation.
Death is an un-selfing kind of wind — a sudden weather, any day. Death is the body's True fidelity to life, to love, and to Reality — regardless of the weather and the day.
To die is necessary, in life's poor Mummery — but, it is not Right and True, unless it is enacted from the feeling-heart. To die by yielding bodily, from the feeling-heart—as when in the Embrace of body-love — is perfect trust, beyond every thought of the little bed of "I"-and-"other"-in-a-room. Such feeling-death exceeds all loss of human love — by means of the human heart's felt constant Un-denial of the Divine Inherent Fullness of Reality's own Love-Bliss.
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