Bocket Pottoms

T'was a beautiful summer morning, The dew was getting ready for a shower in sunlight. X (yes his name was X) was standing there staring open-mouthed at the crown of a tree. Then he realized that there was this risk of bird-droppings and started staring at the trunk instead. So he intended. The trunk's view was blocked by some sort of fence around it by some self-proclaimed tree-savers. His attention turned to the roots above ground that appeared to come out of the monotree-fence, like feet out of trousers. His hands were in his trousers' pockets. And then something pulled. Pulled the bottom of his pockets. No no it was not like half-eaten sharp edgy fingernails getting entangled when you try to take your hand out of your pockets. He was not taking his hands out after all. Something was tugging at the bottom of his pockets from inside. "What the 'ell !" he thought to himself (though he didn't really know English). Was it something he had done at night ? Was it hi-tech pickpocketry (or pickpocketree (but you don't know English !) ?) ? Was it trying to pull its pants down ?

Not really. The something-that-tugged by some mysterious coincidence was called Life (of course he didn't know) and was trying to reach for his hand.

Not knowing what to do when something pulls your pocketbottoms' outside from the inside of your trousers, he simply took his "handses out of his pocketses". And that was simply what Life had really wanted to happen and so it strutted off triumphantly to its bathroom for a nice cool shower (just in time before the water supply was stopped for the day).

1Conscious

There is nothing, absolutely nothing around. Neither space nor time. There is just me. There is nothing inside me. Now I am just conscious that I am. I now know that there is something inside me. It now seems there is everything around me. I am conscious of everything around me. When this consciousness is no more, there will be again nothing. Absolutely nothing, neither space, nor time. It will be just me.
Who is this me?

Shores of Infinity ...

Sitting on the boundless shores of Infinity, I called Her, with the only name She has, Infinity. She comes, riding on a cloud, as white as Her robes, and as fast as My thoughts. There are stars around, white-blue, scattered, all seven of them. And they are in a circlet on Her head. She talks, with Her sea-blue eyes, and with Her mouth, She sings songs, about Trees and the Sea-Waves, about the Tall Mountains, about a Green Field, in Springs. Sometimes She comes sitting on Raindrops, and invites Me to play with the Rainbow. But We generally sit on branches of Trees, and then go inside, through the Roots, deeper and deeper and come out on the top of some other Tree. Sometimes the roots lead Us to to womb of Mother Earth, back whence We came from, and there She sings songs of Creation and Destruction, of Time and his fickleness and the entangled Web He keeps spinning. However, we generally let Him pass, and He too never really has known that We are there.