"The Drop That Forgot It Was the Ocean."

Consider this, old friend—

a truth wrapped in myth,

a revelation disguised as a story.

Once upon a timeless moment,

a single drop slipped from the vastness of the Ocean

and began to believe it was something separate.

It thought it was just a drop—

a tiny “me” drifting alone

amid countless other droplets.

And in that forgetting,

a great and shimmering dream began.

It danced as rain upon the breath of the wind,

fell into rivers,

and swam through silver streams,

each new form whispering seductively…

“This is who you are.”

And the drop believed—

until believing crystallized

into the heavy armor of identity.

In this dream of separation,

the drop struggled to find its place among the many.

It compared.

It feared.

It clung.

It fought upstream against its own illusions.

It looked out at the painted world and said,

“Everything is other. Everything is outside of me.”

And so the dream deepened,

layer upon luminous layer.

But one day, something ancient stirred.

A memory—soft as moonlight,

subtle as incense drifting through a temple doorway,

impossible to ignore.

A longing for Home,

for something vast, infinite, familiar—

something it had always been.

And in a single moment of stillness,

the drop remembered.

It was never merely a drop.

It had never been separate from the Ocean.

It had only forgotten its own source,

mesmerized by the shapes it borrowed

on the long descent through form.

For just as a dreamer forgets the waking body

lying peacefully in the bed,

“we forget the Consciousness that we  truly are—”

unmoving, untouched, ever-present.

In the dream we fly, we fall, we fight,

we wander through distant galaxies of imagination.

Yet the body never goes anywhere;

it simply waits—

still as a mountain,

silent as truth,

resting in the unbroken field of Being

while the mind races wildly through dreamscapes.

And when we finally awaken,

when the veil thins and the spell cracks open like dawn,

we realize with a shock of recognition:

We never left.

We only wandered through imagination.

Perhaps —just perhaps—

in this waking dream, with our eyes open,

it only appears that we have a body to guard and maintain,

as though this fragile vessel were the throne

of who we truly are…

and the mind, a compass that moves through

the shimmering world of maya.

This magnificent mechanism—the ego mind—

was never the driver, never the True Self...

It was only the dream’s navigation system,

a temporary compass crafted

to guide us through appearances 

we mistook for the real.

So it is with us:

We roam the dream believing we are the traveler.

We fight shadows thinking they are enemies.

We cling to stories thinking they are destiny.

All the while,

the True Self remains unmoving, untouched—

watching through the eyes of eternity

as the dream plays itself out.

And when remembrance dawns,

 the drop remembers and melts back into the Ocean,

the entire illusion shatters into laughter—

for the one who searched

was never truly lost,

“only veiled in a soft mist of forgetfulness.”