Look at your reflection on that mirror, seek the irreversible loop of your eyes meeting your soul. Time seems to vanish. You are there and you know exactly where; just for a second you know, you forget. Is this existence?
Why the humor, the coincidences, the cosmic karmic steps? If life was nothing, nothing at all, all these words would not make any sense. If live was senseless, either way, this nonsense of a scenario would be the greatest, the most sublime and mystic stage.
I vow to it; these words being thy movement. My, my old my -the oldest; myself. The events; the turns, lefts and rights, the chain of your inner gears; the chain of reaction of what makes of myself myself,
timelessly, momentlessly: the whole You in myself. Multidimensional, struggling within immanence and transcendence.
To thy, my soul,
My irreversible reflection,
In My name: what is Wisdom? Is it truly mine to grasp?
Could I recognize if it touched my fingers?
Does Wisdom only come in particles?
Will this loop ever find an end?
Rêveur au levé du jour, you are not Gautama,
Your triangles do not fit Spinoza’s,
You don’t look Übermensch, nor Wise.
For this second, only for this second, you know:
Be is a word containing worlds in disguise
It, unimaginable geist of the known
I the biggest of them all.