There is a form of circular breathing that has nothing to do with
music.
In the dark hours before dawn one morning, my then-girlfriend and I stumbled upon it. We had been up all night, experiencing one another, and the entity that was us. We were kissing slowly, tasting one another, disregarding time.
It has been known for some time that infants' cardiac and respiratory rhythms tend to mimic those of the people surrounding them. I suppose that what we have been experiencing since that night is analogous. As we kissed, the ebb and flow of our breathing slowly and inexorably synchronized. It was perfect, effortless.
It began with our noses, touching in the dark. As she inhaled, I exhaled. As she exhaled, I inhaled. The kisses gradually ceased as breath overwhelmed us. We began to breath through our mouths, with an unspoken unity that was almost frightening in its intimacy. We slowly moved our open mouths together and finally
closed the circuit.
The air we breathed was ours and no one else's.
It was a glimpse of the gods.
We shared the same breath for nearly two minutes, tasting the oxygen dwindling. Letting our heads swim. Watching the world dissolve in an anaerobic haze, in the closed system of us. I have never been closer to anyone since I left the womb.