Illusions
Is it a sick manifestation of ego to believe that Infinity is constantly stretching forth to touch me?
Are the leaves that flurry suddenly at the road’s curve a subtle caress?
Are the raindrops that litter my lashes from a heavy grey sky really kisses?
Is the push of the wind a message?
Is the animal’s transfixed gaze creation’s pause?
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I feel the sole possessor of my mood, and then a squirrel fractures the silence with scattered leaves, the scent of honeysuckle pierces my mind with power, invisible beings that live on my skin prick my serenity with invisible thorns.
Does the infinite in me…of me…is me…pendulum another way — balancing my (conscious? unconscious?) swing?
From where does the question even arise…my yearning to discover the inherent divinity of life and living?
Being is so much more to me than being…yet it is only being.
Endless. Pointless. Centerless.
Inseparable because there are no boundaries in infinity — only illusions of finite.
Like me.
