When Even the Kosmos Falls Away
There comes a point when even the most expansive vision collapses—not from error, but from completion.
On the path of awakening, seekers often journey from the confines of selfhood to a union with all things. Ego dissolves, and what once felt separate now reveals itself as interconnected. Compassion grows. The heart blooms for all beings. One begins to live for the Whole.
But for some, even this union becomes too crowded.
Even the notion of “One” becomes too noisy.
This is the threshold where Kosmocentric awareness—a state of profound unity with all life and existence—gives way to something quieter, more radical. Not a deeper connection, but the quiet erasure of the very need for connection. Not expansion, but the release of expansion itself.
This is acentric awareness.
Not centered on the self.
Not centered on the world.
Not even centered on the All.
Acentricity does not point toward identification with something greater. It simply makes no identification at all. No vantage point. No witness. No center from which to perceive. It does not declare that all is One—it no longer needs such declarations. Truth requires no thesis here.
Reality just appears.
Without context.
Without a watcher.
Without the echo of a thought that says, “I am aware.”
Call it suchness.
Call it the absence of everything, shimmering as everything.
Call it the stillness that doesn’t oppose movement, because it was never still.
This isn’t transcendence. It isn’t detachment. It isn’t a stance. It’s the utter end of stance—the collapse of spiritual architecture, without the rubble. It doesn’t reject the world. It simply no longer perceives it as something to accept or reject.
And what does such a life look like?
Unremarkable.
Utterly simple.
Perhaps quiet, perhaps animated.
But always empty of claim, even the claim to be empty.
There are no teachings left to transmit. Not because truth has been mastered, but because it was never a possession. No more climbing. No more seeking. No more union. Not even rest—because rest would imply effort once existed.
This is the unborn silence that does not speak—not even through the mouths of sages.
It appears as a leaf falling, as someone stirring soup, as the sound of a crow at dusk.
And you might pass by it without knowing.
Because it doesn’t need to be known.
It just is.
And it is no one’s.
Morgan O. Smith
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Morgan O. Smith 