The spontaneous trance that arrives mid-stride, mid-afternoon, without altar or preparation — this is not an altered state. It is an unaltered one. The ordinary condition of consciousness, fragmented and self-managing, is the alteration. What floods in when the habitual noise finally recedes is not something new. It is the spanda — the primordial pulse that is not something the cosmos does, but what the cosmos is — suddenly available to a soul whose glass has thinned enough to stop filtering it. The body shudders. The chest opens. The tears rise from below sorrow and above joy. And something that was always already here makes itself known — not as arrival, but as the recognition that it never left.