The void keeps no accounts

 

Legacy counts every act.
Memory tallies every debt and triumph.
We sum grievances and victories like currency.
Line items feel monumental under the lamp.

Mortals build volumes of record to prove existence.
Time opens the heavy cover and shakes out the pages.
The dark expanse absorbs the ink without a trace.
Cosmic entropy keeps no footnote.
The page remains far more comfortable
than the dark.

Eternity needs no courtroom

when actor and stage are one.

Choice shapes the substance

shaping the chooser.

The man who destroys the world

will also know he is of and from the world.

The void cares not.

My dreams were an argument with my long-passed grandpa

about where to throw the apples.

It was Adam and Newton and Grandpa and I

all intertwined in the bendy apple tree bare branches,

with leavings on our toes.

The rotted apples lay on the ground too long,

having gone unpicked,

far beyond his need or greed.

Yet throwing them into the swamp

only ensured future trees that outlasted us both.

The tree called to us to spread it,

and we did its bidding,

enwrapped in our own gravity,

concerned with our own vanity.

God mirrors human longing

 

What do you see in the mirror that is this aphorism?

When we gaze into the infinite;

do we seek the unfathomable,

or just a familiar face?

It is a quiet narcissism.

This human habit of shrinking the boundless,

down into a boundary we can bear.

We take our deepest deficits;

our rawest, unhealed hollows,

and we cast them upward.

Hoping they will be handed back to us,

haloed and whole.

This is not a denial of the divine.

It makes no claim on the territory of the sacred;

whether it breathes in the cosmos,

or sits in the silence of the void.

It is, instead, an inquisition of our maps.

A gentle probe of our own presumptions.

Whatever deity we claim;

whatever ultimate truth we tether our tongues to...

how much of it is the truth,

and how much is just the echo of our own ache?

If the supreme architect we envision,

builds only the exact walls we wish to hide behind...

are we worshiping the architect?

Or are we worshiping the walls?

The aphorism is a prism.

It asks us to pause before we pronounce.

To realize that our highest certainty,

is often just our deepest craving,

caught in a clever disguise.

Can we ever shed the filter of our own gaze onto the divine?

To shed the filter entirely;

is to ask the eye to see without a retina.

We are made of lenses.

Bound by the biology of our longing;

tethered to the grammar of our grief.

Perhaps the goal is not to shatter the mirror;

for without the glass, the finite mind cannot capture the light at all.

But we can polish the reflection.

We can become brutally aware of our own reflections.

When we stop demanding the canyon echo our names;

when we stop requiring the cosmos to carry a grand, fathomable plan;

we make room for the silence.

In that raw, unfiltered moment;

where we simply exist without a narrative;

the glass thins.

It is in the acceptance of the absurdity;

the surrender to the immediate now;

that we get the closest to the territory.

Not by drawing a better map;

but by setting the pen down entirely.

It's all about you...

Without a compass

 

The arrival is gentle,

yet the scale is staggering.

No star map 

guides the initial drift,

nor does a compass 

mark true north 

upon the mist.

Meaning is invented 

mid-stream,

stitching together a sense of purpose 

from the hushed breathing 

of the fog.

Art grants two lifetimes

 The sculptor exchanges a mortal body 

for an immortal anchor.

Every onlooker centuries later 

is simply renting time from a ghost.

Creation is the violent physical labor 

of trapping soul in stone.

Observation is the peaceful resurrection 

of that exact same spirit.

Weightless occurs penalty past

 

Mind strike chorus carry