As I live and breathe I bear witness to the birth of all things. All things, which are born of light, over and over again. A thousand times a minute they are born. Everything is new, and every thing I see a newborn giving birth to itself – that man, that old woman, the bird at my feet, this chair, the window, the floor. It all rises like steam from a cup. Don’t you see? It’s not there all the time. The rock, the oak tree in the meadow. They’re all born in my perception. I give birth to them, and they give birth to me, in an instant simultaneous moment of dual recognition, we agree upon this fiction of atoms and quarks, and all is in collusion, especially the dead, whose dreams we are still living for them; for us, we who are not dead, there is the dreaming of our own dreams, the birthing and the conception of accessories to convince us we are living. We are not living. We are not dead. I am not a zero or a one. The atoms of me are a collection of antique molecules. I am the recycled accumulation of others, a new museum, a universe unto myself. My stirring, my pulsing, throbbing populations, to whom I am a god and king, live and die themselves in this dark city as clueless and helpless as I am in this world of strange beauty and inexplicable death; as sudden and inexplicable as life. Why should I expect death to be any less senseless, less mysterious, as my own bizarre existence? We say that such and such person ‘died too soon’, that such and such an accident was a ‘freak’, that such and such disease was ‘unjust, unfair, meaningless, cruel’, as if life itself was any less fair or freakish or just. Her coming was as miraculous and inexplicable as her departure. Say that. It was a miracle she was here at all, that those two gametes met that day to create such a wild conglomerate of elements, that gathered so uniquely as to give us her, or him, that we may celebrate or mourn that one collection of light, suspended in water, that a name should be given her, and a dream dreamed, a dream we shared, by mutual agreement, where it is written in our hearts forever, that you are you and I am me and that all of this is a world, with each thing given a beginning and an end. But there is no beginning. There is no end. There is only the rearrangement of the seen.
I sometimes imagine a world of the blind. Like albino fish in an underground river. What if we had no eyes? Would we love each other then? Would I place my hand upon your face as a means of recognition? Would I measure you by the timbre of your voice? We are all the same in the dark, equals in the night world, where there is no color and our subtle imperfections disappear.
We have no need of feathers. Scales evolved to fly. We are equally doomed aloft or aground. The world of form is a world of dust and sometimes we are lost among the swirling particles. Sometimes we are found. We are creatures of light confined to a realm of senses of which the eyes are king.