We spend our lives playing a game of cosmic separation.
Nature is a blur of interconnected noise
until the mind arrives with a pair of scissors.
We snip the fabric of the All
just to see if we can wear a piece of it as a coat.
We mistake the border for the being.
But remember: the horizon isn’t a place;
it’s just the limit of our own sight.
To find a limit is to invent the one who is limited.
The world is a seamless, shivering hum
until we decide to draw a line in the dirt.
We think we are discovering a wall,
but we are actually building a house.
The moment you say "that is not me,"
a "Me" is suddenly forced to stand up and take a bow.
Identity is the shadow
cast by the fences we build around the infinite.
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