MYSTICISM • postscript • 2003.09.14
Form is a relative illusion,
shimmering within itself as a wave.
Though, there is an unconditioned which we all share.
It is that which grows the wood we carve out of.
Forever, in our midst,
weaving a pattern so subtle, it is invisible to the senses.
The root of all dimension, foundation of form.
Spiraling within itself infinitely.
Projected upon the stars, from beyond the mind.
Crystallizing a texture so fine, it is inseparable from itself.
So infinite it cannot conceive itself.
Space and form bound as one.
Each of infinite points intersecting all others,
becoming one in the same place.
Utterly immersed within itself, and knowing nothing else.
Aware of it's face with unobstructed clarity,
Creation pours out from the inside,
perceptions in from the outside.
Terrified, to rediscover light.
Confined, to contemplate vastness.
Lost in it's own vast tangle, breaking lose only to reunite.
Questioning existence in utter confusion,
from which it's comforting beauty emerges.
Fluctuating on infinite axis, dancing in it's own midst.
Dying to live
and living to choose
infinite paths returning to it's own heart.