Your golden scars sing their wisdom. Each wound transformed to doorway. But now the singing quiets. The gold flows like honey. Everything you’ve built begins to soften.
Something is ending. Everything is ending.
And it tastes like starlight on your tongue.
A sixth star appears, flickering between being and not-being. That taste spreads through your awareness—bright, effervescent. This flavor will return forever—during deep laughter, in profound silence, whenever you touch the edge between form and formlessness.
You’ve touched this before. Between sleep and waking. After orgasm. In the pause between breaths. That little death before each becoming.
But now it’s not a sip. It’s an ocean.
Feel your name softening. Say it silently. Hear how it sounds like water forgetting to be ice? Yesterday becomes myth. Your entire history? Stories that might have been.
The taste intensifies—not unpleasant but otherworldly. Your cells remembering their stardust origins. Each one a tiny universe releasing its boundaries.
This should terrify you. But notice—underneath any fear, a sweetness. Relief so profound it brings tears. The exhaustion of maintaining shape. The weight of being someone specific. All dissolving like salt in infinite sea.
In the deepest dissolution, when even the witness gentles into mist, something impossible persists.
Not a thing—things need edges. Just… this. Warmth without temperature. Presence without location. The irreducible ISness that can’t not be.
This is what you are when everything you’re not floats away. Even in total dissolution, this cannot dissolve. It watches the dissolution. It will remember having forgotten.
Your tongue knows this taste now—starlight, ancient and immediate. You’ve been to the source of form. You know what you’re made of.
From dissolution’s depths, that irreducible essence begins to hum. Not from choice—it hums because that’s what essence does.
You’re not returning from dissolution—you’re being born from it. Again. For the first time. The taste of starlight carrying through as you reform, marking you as one who knows.
Your body is reforming lighter. More spacious. The cells with more room between them. You’ve brought back dissolution’s secret—you’re mostly space dreaming itself solid.
This has already changed you. Once you’ve tasted complete dissolution, nothing looks quite as solid. In unexpected moments, you’ll taste it again and remember: you’re made of dissolvable light, temporarily pretending.
But even as you reform, something else stirs. If you can dissolve completely and still persist… if something watches even the dissolution… what IS that something?
The question pulls you toward deeper recognition. The dissolution was preparation, showing you’re safe to let go. But let go into what?
The taste of starlight lingers. Your form feels optional. The sixth star flickers eternally between presence and absence. You are mostly space. And space is about to show you something about its nature…