Acatenango, Guatemala
I rest here above the sky and contemplate not existing. The volcano looming in the distance is like an iceberg surging from the depths to scrape the bottom of this moment, debating another eruption as it greets the sun. The solid outer misrepresents the hallow burning core, like the empty witness who has yet to find Self. The internal teeters on the edge, threatening to peek past the brink of exposure and boil over into the clouds, returning the fire to the earth from which it came. The top of the fluffy sea of nimbus waiting to bare witness to a rain that can only be conceived of in cloudy dreams. Here flight itself comes in search of wings.