You seem, at first, to be moving. You are a traveller in space and time. The Earth spins and you walk upon it. You see the seasons change and the cycles of the moon. Your life, it seems, is governed by the tides. There is a force that moves the waters and a force that pulls you down. Numbers, wheels, dials, the right angles of architecture and grids – you are measured, you are contained. You live in a world of lines and boxes wherein the notion of you is kept; seemingly safe. You. The cosmos of letters and blood. You. The atmosphere of your joys and your terrors. You. The tiny planet, where all the wars and wonders of the outer kingdom are waged and won. You. The little castle, the little prison. You. The chyrsalis of God and love. You. The crucible of myths. You. The alchemist, ever transmuting the light into thunder. You. Mother of butterflies and monsters. You. The author of every poem. You. The swallow on her migration, the salmon, the lemming, the buffalo, the wolf. You. You painted in the dark in the labyrinths of Lascaux and left it there as proof. You. There is no missing link. You. You beautiful moron-genius, you Shakespeare mother-fucker, you orb-spider, you fabulous Bower bird, you Leonardo-Michangelo fakir, you crazy Kingfisher, you blind Goby, you John Wilkes Booth. You. Don’t you know who you’re talking to? Don’t you know who I am? Are you that clueless? Have you come so far and learned so little? You calculus-spewing, algorithmic-churning, interchangeable parts-lightbulb-relativity-worshipping fool? Your dreams are almost over and soon the clocks will stop. There is no journey but only an awakening. To this. To you. The great and only you. The white hole that will swallow the kingdom of eyes and surrender to the singular reality of us. See, now, with that sightless organ that knows beyond proof. Om.
o O o