06 September 2014

Three Hundred and Thirty-Five


The singular mystery somehow created you,
And you in turn witness your version of a manifest dream.
You are it and it is you, as indivisible, as inseparable as it must ever be.

* * * *
There are the many whose existence is lived out of obligation to the arbitrary memes born of time,
And the sporadic few whose spirits are drawn to the exploration of its mystery.
Not all can be scientists, else there would be no laboratory
In which wisdom might brew.

* * * *
The history of humankind is an incalculable archive of every conceivable narrative.
There is really no greater or lesser story, all are equally steeped in imagination.

* * * *
Seriously, who really cares about this universe or any other?
Set them all down, wander the infinity carefree.
Be the child you have always been.

* * * *
What is this temporal food-body,
This witch’s brew of a biological stew,
But the timeless, indivisible, quantum ether
You are, have ever been, will ever be.

* * * *
This world is but a miniscule grain of sand
In an infinite ocean of mystery.
Who knows if or when
You will ever appear again,
But, tell me, Pilgrim, have you ever seen
Any seed be given a second chance, much less a third?

* * * *
Maybe what you want really is what your imaginary deity wants.
Maybe the mundane through which you traipse really is the plan.
But maybe, just maybe, the big picture is really not all about you.

* * * *
Quantum stardust somehow organized
To such an implausible degree as to pretend it is alive,
And when that was no longer entertaining, evolved into human beings,
In order to ceaselessly manufacture every sort of absurdly dualistic fiction imaginable.