VERBOSE • postscript • 2004.02.26
Entire worlds blow around in the wake of your footsteps.
Observe a baby spider walking across the vast open floor. Barely grappling to the ground, you walk past and the air gushing to fill the space where your feet once were moves all the dust around him. The spider spirals around in the wind you created.
An inconceivable volume of molecules in the air propogate their inertia, flowing in indefinable conditioned patterns long after you have walked through them.
A world arises in the spider. The world of the spider is aware, and you are in it. The spider is somewhat aware of you, and walking by you transmit dramatic vibrations into the spider's world. To you the vibration is subtle, practically invisible, but for the spider it is a hurricane. His whole body is moved by it.
Humans blow around in earth's hurricanes; the sun in the galaxy's. We are tiny dust mites manifesting cities like colonies of mold rotting away at the surface of the planet. Looking from outer space would need monstrous telescopes to observe our daily lives, running in conditioned patterns.
Yet even the patterns growing in mold are beautiful as the rising sun. And if it were not for the mold, the earth would not be suited for your body to grow out of, and you would not be able to observe the rising sun.
How could you observe the rising sun without a body?
On what fragile balance does the world arise?
Who are you, anyways?