The Fabric of Now

Wrinkles are the reflections of our roots in time, spreading ceaselessly, like trees, like branches, like the horns of a deer. The mirrors change, yet the subjects remain the same.
Time does not simply move forward; it spreads. What we witness as its unfolding is in fact its dissolution into real existence, into volume, where time is endless lengths, endless points of view, endless expectancies. In this deeper reality, the past and future have both already happened and never happened at all. They coexist in paradox, like an eternal crystal sphere, like the inseparable halves of yin and yang, whose tension keeps the world turning.
The present, then, is nothing more than the flame of our attention burning through that ceaseless crisscross of volumes, the endless capacities of single points to connect, to generate, to spawn motions. Each motion reflects us, yet each reflection splits our attention, scattering it across lines that seem separate. This apparent separation leads to dissolution, to forgetfulness, to personal amnesia.
But beneath this forgetfulness lies the same truth: everything is us, and we are everything. To recall this is to pierce the illusion of time, to see that it is only a perspective, a single angle of vision. To remember fully would be to remember the universe all at once, to hold in one glance the infinite weave of existence.
And in that remembrance lies the ancient magic of the vow: all for one, and one for all. For the truth is not division but unity. We are everything, and everything is us.