Surfaces, unbroken, ever extending, towards the horizon. To an end that is the beginning but is not an end because, there was no beginning. To touch them is to touch the very fabric of universe itself. To feel them is to know the forces that create the very concept of existence itself. To know them is to understand the nature of reality and the way the layers fold over themselves and to know that the quest for absolute truth is a quest to understand statements that fold over themselves, to understand realities that come to existence because their causation is brought by events that proliferate in the sphere of those very realities.
There are smooth surfaces, calm and lucid, like surface of a peaceful mind. They exist only as reflections of the rough surface around them. They exist only when an observer seeks to watch upon them its own image. Are they then non-existent? Is their existence a bubble that bursts every time there is no object to reflect? Is their existence defined by the reflection that comes about because of the existence of the reflector itself?
There are rough surfaces. They are both hard and soft, much like a person worn by the world. Places where the mind has been wrought heavily by storms and hardened to those buffeting gusts of hardship and places where the soft innocence of the purity of feeling is retained. Perhaps some mountain of harshness has taken eroding to the winds of the world to protect that tiny brook of kindness that flows from the harsh, rough and sometimes regal mountain.
Put your hand of a surface today. Close your eyes. And feel every single nerve firing as the pressure sensors on your palm inject chemicals to your nerve endings and the perception centers of brain fire and the memories in your neurons are accessed and a characterization of the surface pops up in your mind. Erase that characterization, just feel the surface. Feel yourself losing to the vastness of that sensory experience where every other portion of your brain shuts down and you become the surface itself. Perhaps you are dead for that instant, your existence has merged itself with the surface and you are defined by all those impulses that keep on firing.
Perhaps our existence is also defined by others, by those around us. A circular loop of existence characterized by other existence ad infinitum.
There are smooth surfaces, calm and lucid, like surface of a peaceful mind. They exist only as reflections of the rough surface around them. They exist only when an observer seeks to watch upon them its own image. Are they then non-existent? Is their existence a bubble that bursts every time there is no object to reflect? Is their existence defined by the reflection that comes about because of the existence of the reflector itself?
There are rough surfaces. They are both hard and soft, much like a person worn by the world. Places where the mind has been wrought heavily by storms and hardened to those buffeting gusts of hardship and places where the soft innocence of the purity of feeling is retained. Perhaps some mountain of harshness has taken eroding to the winds of the world to protect that tiny brook of kindness that flows from the harsh, rough and sometimes regal mountain.
Put your hand of a surface today. Close your eyes. And feel every single nerve firing as the pressure sensors on your palm inject chemicals to your nerve endings and the perception centers of brain fire and the memories in your neurons are accessed and a characterization of the surface pops up in your mind. Erase that characterization, just feel the surface. Feel yourself losing to the vastness of that sensory experience where every other portion of your brain shuts down and you become the surface itself. Perhaps you are dead for that instant, your existence has merged itself with the surface and you are defined by all those impulses that keep on firing.
Perhaps our existence is also defined by others, by those around us. A circular loop of existence characterized by other existence ad infinitum.
No comments:
Post a Comment