At sunrise belief comes to me
before language does,
like sap rising in the acacia
when the cold loosens its grip.
I do not ask for it;
the light simply leans into the distant valley,
and my thoughts tilt with it,
as sunflowers obey a law they never learned.
If God did not exist, belief would still unfold,
leaf by leaf,
because religion is not a name,
it is a season,
a turning of the inner soil toward warmth.
Holiness lives the way dew lives
not because it must,
but because the night leaves traces behind.
I have watched it gather on grass,
on bark,
on the eyelashes of the world,
and I know then that the sacred
is only repetition made luminous.
God reigns like gravity,
never seen,
yet every branch bends toward Him,
every river curves as if remembering
an origin it never touched.
Absence is a stronger force than presence,
as dark matter holds galaxies together
without ever showing its face.
What is born of Spirit
moves like pollen on wind blown
weightless, promiscuous, eternal.
Matter is only the husk left behind,
the shell a cicada abandons
on the trunk of a fig.
A thought lasts longer than a mountain,
the way radiation outlives the star
that created it.
As the morning climbs, love begins to flow,
and I feel it first as generosity,
an opening,
a wish to be everywhere at once,
like a river spilling past its banks
into fields that did not ask for water.
This is why love resembles prostitution
not in shame,
but in honesty:
nothing is owned,
everything is exchanged,
heat passes from one body to another
like energy obeying its oldest rule.
At gatherings, in rooms where music turns air
into a living current,
I feel myself multiply,
as if I were no longer a single tree
but a forest sharing one root system.
Eyes touch before hands do.
Breath becomes communal.
Art is born there,
that oldest commerce,
selling the invisible again and again
to those who pretend they came alone.
When the sun reaches its height,
everything becomes measurable.
Shadows shorten,
thought sharpens,
and number reveals itself
like rings inside a cut trunk.
All is number.
Number is in all.
It is in the pulse of cicadas,
in the spiral of shells,
in the way leaves arrange themselves
to steal the most light.
Even ecstasy has rhythm;
even chaos repeats its patterns
like waves forgetting they are water.
I remember wasting everything when I was young,
as the eucalyptus wastes scent on the wind.
Now I store meaning
the way roots store sugar for winter,
knowing hunger will come.
As the day tilts westward, love cools.
What was river becomes canal.
Generosity stiffens into ownership,
and I feel borders rise
where fields once lay open.
Love wants to merge,
yet keep its name,
It wants to conquer and be conquered,
to be both vine and trellis.
Cruelty grows here,
not as opposite,
but as shadow in it's own mirror
longer now,
thicker,
born of the same light.
The air grows heavy.
The green darkness gathers in leaves,
a held breath before falling.
Words deepen.
Common phrases likely metaphors split open
like wet bark after rain,
revealing tunnels dug by centuries of hungry mouths,
ants and worms of language carrying meaning
grain by grain through time slow.
Stories rise from the soil
hunters, lovers, fires, foes
all whispering the same truth:
tenderness and violence share a root.
At sunset, the sky becomes an equation
finally solved,
each colour bleeding into the next
like variables surrendering their secrets.
Belief swells then,
filling uncertainty the way mist fills valleys.
All systems of belief want to be complete, expansive maybe even whole
to explain everything,
to leave no remainder.
This hunger is human,
like a tree trying to hold the whole sky
in its branches,
drowning in the heavens.
Sometimes belief dissolves me entirely,
and I become cedar, stone, cloud, absorbed
my edges soft as fog over water,
until my thought collapses
and I am myself again,
a single trunk standing in the dark.
Night arrives, and love shows its machinery.
It is no longer river or wind,
but blade and iron,
Burning ember torn from its path.
One lover cuts,
one yields.
I have been both.
The sighs, the tremors, the cries
are not poetry
they are data,
part of my enlightenment
as precise as lightning splitting an oak.
I will not call this ecstasy;
that word belongs to stars.
This is decomposition,
the self breaking down
into simpler elements,
like leaves becoming soil.
And yet I know the truth
as I know the heat in embers:
the deepest pleasure lies
in knowing I am capable of evil.
Voluptuousness sleeps there,
coiled like fire in roots
waiting for drought.
At the deepest hour, I turn inward.
I practice austerity.
I pray—not to a god,
but to the act of willing itself,
the way trees grow without asking permission.
The will is a muscle.
Ritual is physics repeated
until it becomes belief.
Music rises like wind through branches,
excavating heaven from silence.
I am a worshipper of fire.
I love burning,
change,
the way destruction clarifies form.
Ash remembers what flame forgets.
Before dawn, life becomes a gamble again.
but it is mine,
The universe throws dice
with every second,
stars collapsing, seeds splitting, wave crashing,
chance disguised as law.
If I no longer care for gain or loss,
only the throw remains,
the sacred accident falling through space,
Inevitable
like a leaf letting go of the tree,
trusting air to teach it
how to descend.
and it is here where i find myself
in a rare and mystical
truth
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 8:10 AM UTC
At sunrise belief comes to me
before language does,
like sap rising in the acacia
when the cold loosens its grip.
I do not ask for it;
the light simply leans into the distant valley,
and my thoughts tilt with it,
as sunflowers obey a law they never learned.
If God did not exist, belief would still unfold,
leaf by leaf,
because religion is not a name,
it is a season,
a turning of the inner soil toward warmth.
Holiness lives the way dew lives
not because it must,
but because the night leaves traces behind.
I have watched it gather on grass,
on bark,
on the eyelashes of the world,
and I know then that the sacred
is only repetition made luminous.
God reigns like gravity,
never seen,
yet every branch bends toward Him,
every river curves as if remembering
an origin it never touched.
Absence is a stronger force than presence,
as dark matter holds galaxies together
without ever showing its face.
What is born of Spirit
moves like pollen on wind blown
weightless, promiscuous, eternal.
Matter is only the husk left behind,
the shell a cicada abandons
on the trunk of a fig.
A thought lasts longer than a mountain,
the way radiation outlives the star
that created it.
As the morning climbs, love begins to flow,
and I feel it first as generosity,
an opening,
a wish to be everywhere at once,
like a river spilling past its banks
into fields that did not ask for water.
This is why love resembles prostitution
not in shame,
but in honesty:
nothing is owned,
everything is exchanged,
heat passes from one body to another
like energy obeying its oldest rule.
At gatherings, in rooms where music turns air
into a living current,
I feel myself multiply,
as if I were no longer a single tree
but a forest sharing one root system.
Eyes touch before hands do.
Breath becomes communal.
Art is born there,
that oldest commerce,
selling the invisible again and again
to those who pretend they came alone.
When the sun reaches its height,
everything becomes measurable.
Shadows shorten,
thought sharpens,
and number reveals itself
like rings inside a cut trunk.
All is number.
Number is in all.
It is in the pulse of cicadas,
in the spiral of shells,
in the way leaves arrange themselves
to steal the most light.
Even ecstasy has rhythm;
even chaos repeats its patterns
like waves forgetting they are water.
I remember wasting everything when I was young,
as the eucalyptus wastes scent on the wind.
Now I store meaning
the way roots store sugar for winter,
knowing hunger will come.
As the day tilts westward, love cools.
What was river becomes canal.
Generosity stiffens into ownership,
and I feel borders rise
where fields once lay open.
Love wants to merge,
yet keep its name,
It wants to conquer and be conquered,
to be both vine and trellis.
Cruelty grows here,
not as opposite,
but as shadow in it's own mirror
longer now,
thicker,
born of the same light.
The air grows heavy.
The green darkness gathers in leaves,
a held breath before falling.
Words deepen.
Common phrases likely metaphors split open
like wet bark after rain,
revealing tunnels dug by centuries of hungry mouths,
ants and worms of language carrying meaning
grain by grain through time slow.
Stories rise from the soil
hunters, lovers, fires, foes
all whispering the same truth:
tenderness and violence share a root.
At sunset, the sky becomes an equation
finally solved,
each colour bleeding into the next
like variables surrendering their secrets.
Belief swells then,
filling uncertainty the way mist fills valleys.
All systems of belief want to be complete, expansive maybe even whole
to explain everything,
to leave no remainder.
This hunger is human,
like a tree trying to hold the whole sky
in its branches,
drowning in the heavens.
Sometimes belief dissolves me entirely,
and I become cedar, stone, cloud, absorbed
my edges soft as fog over water,
until my thought collapses
and I am myself again,
a single trunk standing in the dark.
Night arrives, and love shows its machinery.
It is no longer river or wind,
but blade and iron,
Burning ember torn from its path.
One lover cuts,
one yields.
I have been both.
The sighs, the tremors, the cries
are not poetry
they are data,
part of my enlightenment
as precise as lightning splitting an oak.
I will not call this ecstasy;
that word belongs to stars.
This is decomposition,
the self breaking down
into simpler elements,
like leaves becoming soil.
And yet I know the truth
as I know the heat in embers:
the deepest pleasure lies
in knowing I am capable of evil.
Voluptuousness sleeps there,
coiled like fire in roots
waiting for drought.
At the deepest hour, I turn inward.
I practice austerity.
I pray—not to a god,
but to the act of willing itself,
the way trees grow without asking permission.
The will is a muscle.
Ritual is physics repeated
until it becomes belief.
Music rises like wind through branches,
excavating heaven from silence.
I am a worshipper of fire.
I love burning,
change,
the way destruction clarifies form.
Ash remembers what flame forgets.
Before dawn, life becomes a gamble again.
but it is mine,
The universe throws dice
with every second,
stars collapsing, seeds splitting, wave crashing,
chance disguised as law.
If I no longer care for gain or loss,
only the throw remains,
the sacred accident falling through space,
Inevitable
like a leaf letting go of the tree,
trusting air to teach it
how to descend.
and it is here where i find myself
in a rare and mystical
truth
21 January 2026
Arithmetic of the Sacred - Between Sunrise and the Last truth I can find
