Language is a cage.
We pace its linguistic bars.
It demands a noun to wear the action.
A hook to hang the coat of being.
But grammar is not ontology.
The map is not the moving territory.
Relation resonates deeply.
Knots only exist where two threads cross,
But the threads themselves are in motion.
Perhaps the “I” is simply the friction of that crossing,
The intersection of the in and the out?
Sometimes I wonder if nouns exist at all,
Or if all is a verbing,
An absurd unanchored action,
The divine in the doing.
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