quasi-Nirvana

When you meditate, the key is to ignore everything around you and inside you. It's rather odd, but the concept is simple; find a quiet space, sit down and relax. Steady breathing, not focusing on anything but allowing your mind to drift from one tentative train of logic to another, trickles of emotion and thought relinquishing their grip on the brain like a sleeper's grip. Over time--if you have the patience--the senses quietly flick off, their continued functioning useless in the stillness and unchangingness of the environment. All that you have is the self. You see it, but at the same time you're blind; you can hear the beating of your heart, so faint like a drumbeat and just as impersonal. It turns from a vital, private function to a meaningless whisper through what? Limbs? I can't feel them, I don't need to--I'm not locomotive, not sluggishly dragging myself around space, through time, like quicksand, like a snake through closely woven grass...
Nothing matters; nothing beyond you being can bother you. Time and space: meaningless theories that only serve to tie the world and its inhabitants--if the two are separate; how can one ever tell, if we are all Brahman, we are all one?--together. Restrictive ties on a bundle of straws, but without them there wouldn't be order or community. It's worth it, in the long run, to be limited to one moment and place at a time. Everything is a lot more simple then.
Simplicity. That's it. No details or qualities or actions here; I am. Nothing else is necessary. Pain or time or even the gradual wearing-down of age are, at this moment--this one endless, nonexistent moment, forever and never at once--pointless and beyond me. There is nothing, and for that it is everything.