we play here in the fuzziest of maths our paths diverge from us even as we are on the verge of pushing parallels until they converge at the horizon no conflict of interest our interests engulf us and all the world around us is there really a point where one day becomes another? a line demarcating one from the next? a border in time? a break in the line? there are no breaks only endings and beginnings endlessly beginning there is no border between one moment and the next a line in the sand perhaps but this line is a billion grains of silica marking the borders of a negative space where the idea of a line lives one grouping of grains marks where one grouping of grains ends and another begins? one ending begins and one beginning ends? until the sands shift again ~~~~~~ we play here in an endless sandbox our rules engage us in the game of rules the horizontal is always flat while our horizon forever rounds a strangeness of circles embraced by sand these grains embrace us and we forget our lines our selves this sand loves us and loves for us to forget this silica wants to make blue glass marbles to circle about us
Of course we are all lost. We have been lost many times before. Off course, we all search. We have been searching for a long time. We search for some sense but history proves that this proves nothing. What we seek and search for, time, we will never have, we can never touch or grasp or collect. Still we suck at it like an empty teat and vanish right along with it. .the point . the quest. meets the dragons of the horizon. Some drag that same horizon around like a brittle map. Some scream in the square at passers-by, “Look! Here, where the ocean meets the sky! Here it is! I have found it!” Some look away. Some shuffle their feet on by some loony preaching kingdoms of lost treasures and flatness. We know how these things go. We’ve heard these stories before. Zeno’s been there. His fleet-footed friend is never fast enough. We hurry home, loose hopes like flocks out to pasture, and throw found prayers at the forever locked and stricken horizon. our noses fall off for us we the de- and in- spite of all faces we are not particles this particularity this peculiarity is yet we spin in the same spaceless circles we cannot find our waste precious time searches for what cannot be found without or within (but) what does the searching (we) must be who we are Aren't we that which makes us wonder? Aren't we that wonder which makes us? Are we what wonder makes?