Why is the exact never attained,
yet ceaselessly sought?
It is the design of the cosmos itself,
a game offering the shimmer of triumph
yet never its finality,
its program running without end.
Like the horizon,
ever receding,
never reached,
the cycles fold upon themselves,
echoes looping through eternity,
yet no pattern
is ever the same.
Each blossom of recurrence
is its own garden of form,
sprung from the same motionless heart
that stirs every heartbeat into bloom.
Even time conspires in this illusion:
each moment mirrors the last,
yet bends away,
a fractal of becoming,
where pursuit is the only permanence.
Between the mirrors of future and past
there lies a sizeless point,
through which all motions awaken,
all gestures roll into animation.
To search
is to step into the eternal rhythm of creation—
to move within the weave of the infinite,
where arrival is a mirage,
and the act of seeking itself
is the unfolding of all that is.
