We teach presence
to fear the bewilderment of after,
and continuance
to mourn what has already passed.
Yet neither can breathe without the other.
They flow together,
two currents of one river,
shimmering facets of a single world.
Only the eye divides the river,
into before and coming,
where no division exists,
only an everlasting now.
The point,
the dot of being,
we stretch it into a line, into time.
Yet the stretching of a volumeless point
does not create volume,
except in the mind of imagination.
We exist because we imagine separations:
the joints between void and volume.
Existence is the existence of presence,
jointless, yet continuous.
Existence does not exist;
it is nothing
but the consciousness of presence.
To see destiny is to notice,
and noticing is the imprisonment of freedom.
Everything is yet.
Everything is still.
This is clarity:
the realization that zero contains all.
Non-existence, the void,
is the ultimate freedom
within the cage of being.
For in a dimensional world,
everything observed is both prison and liberation.
The wound is not in time.
Mountains and valleys are not rivals;
they hum in resonance,
waves folding into stillness.
Yet the perceiver insists on fracture,
splitting points into lines,
stretching volume into edges,
chasing separation where none exists.
No freedom exists without entrapment;
no entrapment exists without freedom.
Presence alone is existence:
consciousness,
awareness of awareness,
which imagination stretches into time,
dividing presence into theatrical past and future.
The artist creates,
and creation becomes the pivot
between point and nothing,
between line and infinity,
birthing another sizeless dimension
within volume.
Yet there is nothing there
but the consciousness of presence.
