Lost Flowers by Prospero2013

One day in the winter of 1993,
he dreamt of the atman,
after a woman handed him
a glass of flower juice.

He sensed a threat, vague and unnerving.
He had noticed a few undissolved grains of powder
at the bottom of the glass.
What had always seemed obvious and self-evident
had now been disturbed by the flowers.

He had opened a doorway
which he was no longer able to close.
He had no choice but to follow through.

He formed many initial deductions
all from incomplete data.
This led to ambiguity and unsettling confusion.
But he was also protected by something.

He postulated the atman as fundamentally non-local in nature,
not really fully human,
not really fully other,
made from the raw substance
of an extraordinary range of flowers.

At first he focused
on only one state of the atman,
that which he carried as a seed in his body.

Through the winter and into the spring,
the possibilities for active new flowers seemed boundless.
Each came with extraordinarily bizarre
and incredibly detailed narratives.

He talked ceaselessly into a recorder
in the hope of some kind of future understanding.
Of these many recordings, only one fragment remains:
"That most intimate, that most sapient part of ourselves,
the interface between the mind and molecular matter,
is the bridge to bear down on the atman itself."

The rest of the recording was lost long ago,
along with the flowers.
In the eyes of the world,
nothing ever truly happened.