It will not help at all, I know what I am looking for. This hand, this piece of paper to begin with. What it is, if all it is. But the core of my existence. Faltering in light and the unfocused lenses of my eyes. The wisdom to capture not the moment as the moment lost itself when beginning.

So where, where are we now if all that is lost to us comes to pass? Does it perpetuate in endless frailty, when this piece of paper is burned to shreds? Nothing exists of nothing save to fail ideas, illusions of eternity. If all that we are is an ending then that which will remain is part energy, part form. Jumping from one atom to the other. As in a dance but is not really of us only all of what makes us. Into a here, into a now.  And the illusion of time perpetually never ending is laughed away by nothing other than the true meaning of Being.

If only I would not resist.

© February 7, 2011