I sometimes imagine that as I get older I will become more and more entranced, moving ever more deeply and solidly into a space of enchantment—until one day I’ll levitate and not stop but keep going. Eventually I’ll realize that I left my body way down on planet Earth. Others will say I died, but to me that would be like calling the best feast you ever partook of dinner, or the best love-making sex.

Do those we on Earth call dead think themselves dead? I mean if they think of themselves at all, if the state they’re in matters enough to name it. Perhaps they are eternally levitating, eternally enchanted in a state beyond knowledge, beyond reflection, beyond any consciousness that would be hyphenated with “self.” A consciousness so pure, concentrated, focused on itself—its celestial, eternal self—that it has no label, no predicate, and no word could describe it, no subject or object divide it.

Imagine consciousness and the state it’s in being synonymous. This is the ultimate meaning of mysticism, harmony, truth as beauty. And truth as imagination, truth as unmitigated light, truth as one vision and a vision of oneness. Truth as one spirit—though many angels—and one desire: to be itself, the truth of consciousness eternally freed into the unity of its truth and the truth of its unity.

But why call this death as opposed to life—unless you mean the death of a debilitating ego? And by life I mean the highest life: high in every sense of the word, in or out of body. Yet it’s a state earthly particulars have little or no purchase on, and so abstractions are absolved of the charge of communicating poorly. They are the best language has to speak of it. In fact, it is a total abstraction, but not necessarily less interesting for that. Or rather it is beyond the dichotomies of abstract and concrete, particular and general, even earthly and heavenly. It is, as I said, beyond definition or description. It is where the writer lays down his pen and lets existence take over. It is the apotheosis of enchantment.