B is the echo of A—
a ripple born in time.
But in the fourth dimension’s quiet,
B returns
and becomes the cause of A,
casting its shadow backward
into what we call
the past.
So the arrow breaks.
The lineage falters.
Time no longer walks a line.
To understand this,
look not to beginnings,
but to the final cause:
the sculpture not yet carved
is already the reason the stone awaits the chisel.
Its spirit breathes
before its body is named.
It moves beneath the surface,
the silent intention
behind the hand,
behind the hammer,
behind the birth.
In truth, the form seeks itself.
It leans toward its own becoming,
as if memory were folded
into the marrow of the future.
Causality—
a seesaw in time—
what begins ends,
what ends begins.
The cause and the effect
trade places in the dance.
So time,
to the finite mind,
is a line we march.
But to the seeing soul,
it is a figure 8—
the soft, infinite braid
where before and after
kiss at the center,
and the future
pulls the past
into being.
