"Eternity... transcending time and space... the knower, knowledge, and the known are one and the same truth"—such thoughts, when they arise, seem to paralyze the intellect. Yet the heart responds. Questions emerge—what does this mean? And why does it matter at all?
We are human beings, born into temporary, material bodies for a few fleeting days. We arrive in the world nearly helpless, sustained by others' care and nourishment. Then, gradually, we learn to communicate through gesture and sound, and later master language itself. In childhood, from various sources, we acquire relative knowledge—up and down, large and small, hot and cold, before and after, order and chaos, and so on. When we grasp these distinctions, we receive praise, gold stars, A-pluses, "good boy," "good girl," "you'll surely succeed"—such recognitions. At the same time, we escape the authorities' reproach. We learn how to stand in line, sit in our seats, and blend into the crowd.
Adolescence brings us a measure of freedom. For many, this is where trouble begins. An unknown restlessness emerges, a rebellious undertone, an indefinable irritation rises to the surface. Something feels lost, or we've boarded the wrong vehicle. But rebellion carries fearsome consequences, so most people return to the line—some for a lifetime, others temporarily. Yet that silent inner despair returns, louder each time, ringing more insistently in the ears.
When this suppressed despair deepens or erupts, a person reaches a crisis. In solitary moments, perhaps tears fall while gazing at the sky, or in profound hopelessness, one destroys something. One path leads to perdition—crime or prison. Another leads toward that search for "an irredeemable absence."
Here begins the true conflict—the mind's confusion and the heart's response. Perhaps, until now, there had been doubt about religion, especially organized religion with all its havoc. But the inquiry that begins in moments of despair ultimately points toward God (or, for those who speak in the language of spirituality and reject the notion of God, toward the discovery of the true self). This inner resonance intensifies the mind's confusion.
Here the brain—that is, the ego—grows afraid. The mind erupts with unsettling chatter, mockery, threats—all designed to pull one away from this new search. But the heart beats so loudly then that it drowns out the ego's noise. This war can rage for years. To sense this conflict, one need only turn to the Bhagavad Gita.
The only way to win this battle is through complete surrender and readiness to die. (Many turn back in fear here.) But as long as nothing ceases, and a perfect silence does not descend, the war continues.
From this complete silence is born a new experience—Transcendence. There, the individual "I" dissolves. Yet it is not emptiness; rather, a fullness of emptiness—where nothing exists, and yet everything exists. And there is felt an boundless love, where the presence of God or the realization of non-dual truth is known. Only then does one understand what eternity, what timelessness, what spacelessness truly is. Then the knower, knowledge, and the known become one.
One may, by hearing, reading, writing, and imagining this experience, perhaps catch a resonance of it, but the thirst remains unquenched. In truth, it is possible only through direct personal experience. If someone has known this experience, then they know it.
And if this remains obscure to anyone still, know this—it cannot be explained in words; it is grasped only through direct perception.
When the heart awakens to the resonance of truth, having passed through the barriers of mental confusion, religious hypocrisy, and the weight of ego, there comes that silent understanding—one that is undivided, that leads toward love and eternal peace.