Reality isn’t a concept. It is just being.
It has no meaning. Meaning, comes later, he says. “Far, far later”. In the scheme of universe, meaning is a toddler.

They silently nod at each other. One aged by the abundance of his experience. Other drained by the wealth of his understanding.

Everything is being. Light: bright little lolling of waves and particles. Earth: something we all are, came from and return to. Water: the eternal essence of everything. Fire: the passion that breakdowns and burns. Air: the invisible essentiality of the universe.

Inhale. Exhale.
Exhale. inhale.

This is Cosmos.

They gaze at each other. A benign look.

Then almost as an afterthought he softly says, “There is another type of asana. It is performed slowly; in fact very very slowly, the crests and troughs are weaved together, highs and lows are not punctuated but harmonised. As you go about practising it, you slowly start losing your likes and dislikes, your cravings and your regrets. Your pasts and your futures.

You own identity. That, which constitutes you.

You slowly denounce everything.

You inhale and you exhale. There will be no meaning.

You become the Cosmos”.

The man mutely nods. There is no more than an implied understanding.

Silence carries only meaning but no proofs.

They look at each other. They carry on as if nothing’s been said. Nothing’s been heard. As though it was not necessary, even irrelevant.

But somewhere, something has changed.