Reduced to a single point
Within and without I know,
I am but one single speck.
I feel it now in my mind;
My thinking soul.

Not in conventional terms but,
Let my thinking heart guide thee
In understanding me.

Nothing forms
Like air let loose.
We drift, as infinitismal nothings,
Following from within like a painter's brush into reality-
Our own canvas are we.

Superceded by phantoms of ghosts
Ethereal blurs take their geometry,
Exist within A euclidity.

We weave ourselves in the hairs of our god's
Nebulous strands dreaming outwards from the thinking hearts,
The hearts that make us but we form-
This integration of it into nothing
Of nothing... to something.

Spontaneously alive
Digital sparks that programmed their own world's
Existing within limits self imposed.

We perceive from internals to externals
But accepting truths built falsely
They hold, like all Straw houses crumbling and shrinking,
Till they fade inwards, collapsing into reality the painters brush falters.
It cannot go on, it cannot paint finer than its hairs, only grander, out, bigger, falser.

Our eternity is merely a fraction of our own
It extends infinitely we cannot go...
With it.

Within these truths I find myself
With these fundamentals I paint myself into the world
With these dreamlike strands of hair I weave myself.
Into the fabric of your mind, you are part of this now!
You always were, and never will be.