There is a pen. A pen which never stops. A pen which moves deftly across the blank pages of existence. Writing everything into being. Except that is only one way of looking at it.

There is a wheel. A wheel which never stops. A wheel which turns and turns, spitting golden sparks, carving a yellow path across dark blue velvet skies. Life erupts, suddenly, in its wake. Thinking itself immortal. Building empires and civilizations on the path of gold. Until the wheel returns, crushing everything, pure annihilation. Then life starts anew. A faint memory of the old in its new genetic makeup. Remembered, yet always forgotten. Except that is only one way of looking at it.

There is a pelican. A pelican swimming through the air, effortlessly yet also in stops and starts, as if it is an animated water painting. These paintings, one after the other, give the illusion of motion, of consistency. There is no such thing. Only an idea. And the concept of linear time. A piece of shoddy theatre. For whose benefit? The pelican’s. Except that is only one way of looking at it.

There is a wound. An open one. It never heals. It gasps and spits as if alive, as if cursed by fateful individuality, a piece divided from the whole. Sometimes it seems as if it tries to speak. To gasp out long-hidden truths, life-changing secrets. But it cannot. It hurts too much. And every time it tries, the wound grows deeper. One day, one day, when the wound is deep enough, it will find its voice. Then – will you listen? Except that is only one way of looking at it.

There is a stream, a grave, a blossoming tree. A road, a father, a hoard of glittering jewels beneath the sea. There is all things, and none. And in it all a mirror of a mirror of a mirror.

To see it all is madness. Yet choosing blindness is madness greater still. Oh, paradox of life, of death, of in-betweens. How do you walk the tightrope between dualities? Without descending into darkest pits, without ascending into seas of light, without without and with the with?

When all we know is metaphor and metaphor is all we know, and nothing else exists but play and make-believe.

Consumed by dreams, reality is ridden.

Soft.

Blue.

Kernel.

Bliss.

2 thoughts on “There Is

  1. Be careful with “it’s” when something belongs to something.

    It’s “its”.

    “…when the wound is deep enough, it will find it’s voice.” is wrong.

    “It will find its voice.” is right.

    Too many years teaching; I still need to proofread for mistakes! Forgive me.

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