Could the Earth be other than round? In roundness there is wholeness. In roundness there is Oneness. The Sun is round. The Moon is round. All planets are round.

Imagine a circle that is so big, you can't find the circumference. Perhaps there can be no circumference. Perhaps there is none, for this circle is ever-expanding. It is a blossoming circle. It keeps blossoming more and more. What does it blossom into? What does it become, this ever-widening circle? And where in its roundness, did it begin?

Imagine a circle of light, its rays so bright your eyes cannot see the center of it. There is so much light, you cannot see where the light is coming from. All you can see is light. All you can know is that there is light, and light is. The light is so bright that you cannot differentiate anything in the light. There may not be anything to differentiate in the light that is so bright. Maybe there is nothing to see but more light, if you could see. Maybe there is nothing but light, and light is all inclusive.

Imagine that you live within this light. Imagine that you are a part of this undifferentiated light. Yet, how can you be a part of that which has no parts, no segmentation, no spots, no dots, nothing but simply fulminating light, surging and rolling like waves, light having a good time, light knowing nothing else, knowing not time nor good nor bad, knowing nothing but the light of itself, knowing nothing but expanding eternity, winding itself around and around, escalating, dancing joyful light?

Immersed in the light, how would you even know that this unbounded light was light? There would not be a name for light. There wouldn't be a name for anything. There would be nothing to name. There would be the beingness of light. There would be Being dancing in its own light. There would be this energy ready to burst into song, come into play, implode upon itself, replicating the wholeness of its being, furling and unfurling, circling itself in ever-widening circles, embracing itself as if there were no other, when all the while there is no other.

What if the replication of this Oneness forgot its Oneness? What if the replication did not even believe in Oneness, did not conceive it, did not recognize it nor reverence it, did not remember it, did not extol it, did not look for it, ostracized it from its awareness, abandoned it as if Oneness had never been?

What if this reflected Oneness kept looking into pools of light and saw himself shimmering on the surface? What if he imagined whatever he imagined, and what he imagined came to be? He imagined water and swam in it. He imagined sidewalks and walked on them. He imagined other beings like and dissimilar to himself walking around, filling up the sidewalk and the imaginary place he dubbed the world. What if, wherever he turned, he saw himself and didn't know it was himself? What if he imagined everything into existence the way an artist pencils a drawing? What if his eyes were the lenses of a camera, or a kaleidoscope, and he believed whatever he saw, as if it has been set before him from elsewhere? He invented elsewhere.

And what if he vaguely remembered something but didn't know what it was? He couldn't focus on it because it was still undifferentiated and much too big and too marvelous to conceive within the fragile framework he had built for himself. What if he imagined he was stranded somewhere when he was still immersed in the blazing light from which he only imagined he had strayed?