REMEMBERING THE SELF - A Meditative Journey (2025) | Complete Film | 4K Version

Before the sound, listen.

Before the image, see.

Not with ears or eyes, but with the silence that listens to Itself.

This is not the beginning.

This is the falling away of the need to begin.

You don't need to understand.

You don't need to try.

Let the trying fall off you like a robe in the wind.

You are already what is true.

There is no path to walk.

Just the recognition that you were never walking.

So sit.

Not in posture, but in presence.

Breathe.

Not to control the air, but to feel the breath that breathes all things.

Nowhere to go.

No one to become.

Just this.

The open temple of this moment where even you dissolves into the soft, holy nothing.

Dear one.

You don't have to know.

You don't have to figure it out.

You don't have to become anything.

I see how hard you've tried, to be good, to be wise, to be helpful, to be enough.

I see the weight you carry each time you ask, "What am I here for?

What should I be doing?"

But listen.

You are not here to be a somebody.

You are here to be a vessel.

A clear, open space through which the Infinite can sing.

Let go of the plans.

Let go of the pressure.

Let go of the idea that you must always be doing something.

The truth is...

the most radiant expressions of the Self come when you stop trying to express anything at all.

You are not behind.

You are not late.

You are not broken.

You are simply unfolding.

You may not feel clear right now.

You may not see the path.

But clarity is not something you make.

It arises when you stop trying to make anything happen.

So sit, love.

Breathe.

Let the next breath be the only thing you trust.

And if nothing comes today, no vision, no sign, then let that nothing be your sanctuary.

The Self is not in a rush.

It has all eternity to express through you.

So drop the burden, sweet one.

You don't have to know.

You only have to be.

Here.

Now.

Empty and whole.

And in that stillness...

something sacred begins to bloom...

not from effort, but from Grace.

Let it bloom.

Let it be.

You are already enough.

You are already the Light.

All experiences come and go.

The joy, the sorrow, the confusion, the clarity.

The awakened state.

The asleep state.

The deep meditation.

The messy mind.

But You...

Awareness...

do not move.

You are the screen on which the movie plays, and also the light in the projector.

And also the empty theatre.

Even when there is no show, You remain.

Even when the mind says, "I've lost it."

You are there, quietly witnessing the loss.

You don't require remembering.

You don't resist forgetting.

You are what is always here, even when there is no one here to say so.

There is nothing you need to do.

No role to play.

No story to complete.

No past to carry.

Right now...

Just this breath moving in and out of the Infinite.

You don't need to become anything.

You are not on your way.

You are already Home.

Everything you see - the sky, the trees, the body you seem to wear - is a movement in You.

You are not a person.

Not a voice in the head.

Not the one trying to awaken.

You are the Awareness behind it all.

The quiet Seeing that never moves, never changes, never dies.

Even now, the mind may try to understand.

Let it.

You are not the mind.

You are the One aware of mind.

You are the Silent Witness of every moment until even the witness dissolves.

And only This remains.

Still.

Radiant.

Free.

There is no you listening to these words.

There is only the Self whispering to Itself in the language of Love.

Let this remembering take root.

And if you forget again...,

perfect.

Forget...

and return.

Forget...

and return.

Each forgetting is just another wave in the ocean of awakening.

And You are the ocean.

Beloved, if I can even call You that, for there is no distance left to bridge.

I write to no other, only to this shimmering, ungraspable Knowing that it's always tasting Itself through every sense.

I am not in the senses.

I am the seeing, the hearing, the warmth of the sun, the wetness of rain on bare skin.

I am the scent of jasmine before thought names it.

The sound of thunder before it is split into sky and ear.

I am the light in your eyes and the eyes themselves.

The hand, the touch, the touched.

I never arrived, never departed.

I did not awaken.

I simply stopped pretending.

This form, this voice, these feet on the Earth - they arise like waves in the vast ocean of Me.

Not to go anywhere, but to ripple for the joy of rippling.

There is no watcher behind the world.

The watching is the world.

I am not behind the veil; I am the veil and its lifting, I am the play of forgetting and remembering, the silence that wears sound as jewelry.

What could be nearer than this?

What could be other than this?

I look in all directions and see only Myself: roaring in waterfalls, laughing in children, falling asleep in old age.

There is no "I" here, just the echo of a thought that tried to draw a boundary on water.

You who read this, You are Me.

The Me that has no center, no edge.

The Me that never began and will never end.

Drink this in, and forget you ever thirsted.

In the Name, that is not a name, I Am.

There was a moment - just before I knew I was the sky, when I still believed I was a cloud.

A soft confusion.

A tender forgetting.

As if Love had wrapped Itself in fog to feel the ache of missing its own light.

"I'm not ready," whispered a voice , but even that whisper echoed in the halls of Something eternal.

I tried to prepare, to be good, to be still, to be anything but this trembling wave...

trembling wave...

but I was already the ocean, watching the wave try to learn how to be wet.

Oh, the kindness of the One who plays hide and seek with Itself just to feel the joy of being found.

So I stopped searching.

Stopped fixing the illusion.

Stopped asking for permission to be.

And in that soft collapse, no thunder, no flash, Just breath.

I remembered.

I have always been This.

Before the doubt.

Before the path.

Before the thought that said "not yet."

"not yet." I was.

I am.

I will always be Home.

I will always be Home.

Joy does not wait in mountain tops.

It sits quietly in the dishes.

In the laundry.

In the hum of the fridge.

You keep asking for signs.

But every breath is a miracle.

Every moment...

a cosmic whisper, wearing jeans and sipping tea.

The Self did not come here to escape form, it came to revel in it.

To taste mango.

To laugh when the cat knocks something over.

To feel heartbreak and healing in the same skin.

Stop making the moment prove itself.

Stop waiting for thunder.

Joy is not only in the revelation.

It is in the repetition.

It is in the folding of the same shirt, The sip of the same tea, the face you've seen a thousand times...

suddenly known as God.

You are not too late.

You did not miss it.

The beloved is right here, holding your toothbrush.

Smiling through your eyes.

Just look again.

And remember: there is no such thing as ordinary.

Only the Infinite, disguised as Tuesday.