A beam of light through a window sill illuminates the room. The birds outside energized by the divine energy of the brilliant hue, sing as in ecstasy. The air, as if filled by an ether of the deepest silence, sits with the absolute stillness of a mountain monk. The wind blows with an enthusiasm as if it has set its mind to serve the divine by taking his comforting cool to every man doing his morning labor.
And in his room somewhere in this forgotten bright city of silence, sits with his legs crossed and eyes closed, a young man in his mid-twenties from India. In the shy lights of the dawn, sits a man not there. Breath fills his lungs. Heart beats. Ears listen to the ecstatic birds.
But the man, not there. Inside lies the most peaceful place in the entirety of existence, calmer than the deepest ocean, quieter than the quietness of death, yet vital as the mountain breeze of the morning.
He is not there. Just pure being. Pure experience.