Dreaming Sounds: Discovering Stillness and Being

Once, in a time outside time, I dreamed I was awake.

Not the kind of waking with birdsong or sunlight—no. I opened my eyes and found myself floating, suspended in the middle of nowhere. Not falling. Not flying. Just being—held in a vast velvet dark, as if the stars had drawn a breath and paused.

At first, I searched for a ground, a sky, a self. There was none. Only this shimmering stillness, thick with quiet, like the hush before a great story is told.

Then, a whisper rose—not from outside, but within the space I seemed to occupy:

“You are the place you’ve been looking for.”

And with that, I saw it: dream upon dream, layered like silk, each life a ripple of thought dressed in sensation. I had wandered so far through these veils, I forgot I was dreaming at all.

I laughed—softly, like wind in long grass. It echoed across the nowhere, waking colors I had never seen. The stars, or were they memories, blinked like eyes of old friends.

I had no name there. No need. I simply floated, dreaming the dream of awakening, until the dream dreamed me back into form.

And now I walk the waking world with a strange, luxurious knowing—
that even when lost, I am held.
Even when alone, I am home.
And somewhere, always, I am still floating—
quiet, endless,
in the middle of nowhere.

There’s a moment just before a sound happens—
a quiet pause where your attention leans in,
waiting.
Not the sound itself,
not the silence before it,
but a space in between.

If you’re walking, try listening for the step
before it lands—
imagine the sound it will make.
Then let the real sound come.
And after that,
feel the echo of it trailing off.

That moment just before and just after—
that’s where something opens.
A kind of stillness that’s not empty,
but alive.

Usually, we’re lost in thought,
caught in memories or plans.
But sometimes a sensation—
the wind on your face,
the sound of your breath—
pulls you back.
Suddenly you’re not lost,
you’re here.

And if you stay with that—
if you really rest in it—
even the feeling of “me” starts to soften.
There’s just awareness.
Noticing.
Being.

It’s not about chasing the gap,
or trying to hold on to it.
It’s more like recognizing
that it’s always there—
underneath the noise,
before the next thing happens.
That’s the space where everything appears,
and where you gently dissolve
into what’s real.