about an attempt to use one's own fist to create a kind if an imaginary gateway to a vantage point from which a seemingly hopeless situation can be seen somehow more clearly. (and about the unexpected and surprising answer found on the path.)

He held his right fist into the air in front of him. He turned it long enough to make sure he was able to see a volume of blood, not four fingers guarded by a thumb. This was the size of his heart. He imagined it as a lump of space, floating in front of him. He removed the fist slowly. The lump of space remained. He imagined is heavy, pumping, alive, aging, slowly stepping through time, with him now, there it was, they were not traveling together. A sitting man in a barely lit room, staring at the air in front of him to others was a man sitting in a barely lit room, staring at what he just decided was a mysterious representation of so much more than a never sleeping organ in his chest. He closed his eyes, to see it a bit more clearly. A simple exercise in meditation really... He now could make it turn colors, pulsate faster and slower and rotate it, make it come closer, move a bit further. He now sliced it in half. A somehow random cut. Now again. Again. Now. cut cut cut cut and with each division more pieces were created, until his brain imagination could no longer hold them in front of him, or glowing, or pumping, or alive, or together, or apart, or at all... and so the exponential amount of pieces just burst apart, unimagined, out of focus, a soup with glibber chunks. He opened his eyes. There was still the table in front of him. On the table: his fist. A thumb guarding four fearful fingers. And he pressed the back of his thumb against the space on his forehead that indentation behind which there is no brain. This was where the two halves of his brain met. This is where the hot spot existed, approximately, perhaps, where all the information from the left had to pass the information from the right. This was ridiculous. He could not imagine his heart anymore. Not long enough in one piece to make it travel a good distance. His brain has just reduced itself into an organ working best in a space where it is not. He used all his fingers now to embrace his growing sweaty little forehead. The sockets of his closed eyes pressed firmly into the palms of his hands. It was dark at first... then flickers of color began to appear here and there. the pressure against his eyeballs felt a bit saur. his brain worked harder now to, independently of his will, create carpets of coherent shapes... all wrong. all just a buzzing noise. he lowered his own pressure a bit. he imagined a space, about the size of his fist, in front of him. motionless... there is was. about a pound of matter? grams? tons? alive? dead? certainly temporary. and there, it began to slice itself again and again and again... //////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// 2^64?... and so he finds, completely unexpectedly, this: raga-dvesa-vimuktais tu visayan indriyais caran atma-vasyair vidheyatma prasadam adhigacchati