I imagine that I'm someplace high. A vantage point of sorts. Perhaps a cliff watching over a deep valley, or a mountaintop that feels like a compass needle pointing to infinity. I see every direction, in every dimension.
I imagine the tapestry of infinity, woven in energy's loom and all laid out above and below me. It is the greatest art, vast beyond reason. Neither created nor destroyed, only changed from one colour to the next. I imagine that I am not colourblind.
How can I see infinity? In truth, I cannot. Its weave stretches beyond every horizon, a living canvas of endless possibilities. From far away it resembles coloured sands, forever blown and sifted by what if and remember when and that's impossible. That which is infinitely many seems to move as one.
I gaze across incredible distance to the edge of my eventualities, the limit of my perception. I wonder when my path will take me beyond the horizon. I cannot perceive the curvature of time, much as I cannot see the curvature of the earth when I look across the prairies, but I know that an eternity from now I will find myself standing at this place again, once every moment between now and then has been resolved.
I look closer. And then I imagine me. Every cell, every molecule in my body a fibre much to small to see on its own. Look, crouch down a moment and run your fingers along the fabric. Follow the twines and the knots just here, there's an inch of infinity, this red thread. I'm a blink in measureless space before I go to weave something new.
I see a world of colours diving through a canvas of time. I reel with the overwhelming chaos of it all. Too much. My brain screams for want of patterns, familiarity, something to recognize or someplace to start.
I choose a cord. A thick bundle of green like vines climbing a kaleidoscopic lattice, constantly changing direction, gathering new threads and casting others away, sometimes with such power that they fly beyond my sight. I lose years in seconds watching it unravel.
And then it's gone. I am lost with nothing to follow but the anxiety that arrives in its place, and I wonder if I will ever find myself again. An inch of infinity is so tiny. The path I followed was never straight. There is no hope of tracing my way back.
Where is my red thread? Must be somewhere in this reticulated picture of time, I suppose. I am hidden inside an infinite collection of moments that have come to resemble a single reddened inch in this eternal maze of creation. Come find me.
Images and patterns bloom and burst and disappear, in and out of time. I would panic if not for my fascination. Where am I? Every time I shift my gaze I find a new swath of technicolour possibilities rolling through the fabric like waves in an endless field of grain.
I reach for a thread. As I touch the canvas, my finger splits into a million tiny fibres and interlaces with infinity. I follow. And as I dissolve into a crimson spiral and feel the universe envelop me with a boundless embrace, I wonder... how far will I reach before my thread runs out? Who will weave with me?
If only for a moment, I have received this breath, this gift, this inch of red. Only for a moment before I have to give it back. And I see a world where colours clash and I think,
if only.
If only I could make a gift befitting the love I long to see, I would give all my thread. I would give every fibre to the dream of a finer infinity, if only the soul who came after to this peak of perception would see a tiny swatch of red spinning just so, and say,
beautiful.
I imagine the tapestry of infinity, woven in energy's loom and all laid out above and below me. It is the greatest art, vast beyond reason. Neither created nor destroyed, only changed from one colour to the next. I imagine that I am not colourblind.
How can I see infinity? In truth, I cannot. Its weave stretches beyond every horizon, a living canvas of endless possibilities. From far away it resembles coloured sands, forever blown and sifted by what if and remember when and that's impossible. That which is infinitely many seems to move as one.
I gaze across incredible distance to the edge of my eventualities, the limit of my perception. I wonder when my path will take me beyond the horizon. I cannot perceive the curvature of time, much as I cannot see the curvature of the earth when I look across the prairies, but I know that an eternity from now I will find myself standing at this place again, once every moment between now and then has been resolved.
I look closer. And then I imagine me. Every cell, every molecule in my body a fibre much to small to see on its own. Look, crouch down a moment and run your fingers along the fabric. Follow the twines and the knots just here, there's an inch of infinity, this red thread. I'm a blink in measureless space before I go to weave something new.
I see a world of colours diving through a canvas of time. I reel with the overwhelming chaos of it all. Too much. My brain screams for want of patterns, familiarity, something to recognize or someplace to start.
I choose a cord. A thick bundle of green like vines climbing a kaleidoscopic lattice, constantly changing direction, gathering new threads and casting others away, sometimes with such power that they fly beyond my sight. I lose years in seconds watching it unravel.
And then it's gone. I am lost with nothing to follow but the anxiety that arrives in its place, and I wonder if I will ever find myself again. An inch of infinity is so tiny. The path I followed was never straight. There is no hope of tracing my way back.
Where is my red thread? Must be somewhere in this reticulated picture of time, I suppose. I am hidden inside an infinite collection of moments that have come to resemble a single reddened inch in this eternal maze of creation. Come find me.
Images and patterns bloom and burst and disappear, in and out of time. I would panic if not for my fascination. Where am I? Every time I shift my gaze I find a new swath of technicolour possibilities rolling through the fabric like waves in an endless field of grain.
I reach for a thread. As I touch the canvas, my finger splits into a million tiny fibres and interlaces with infinity. I follow. And as I dissolve into a crimson spiral and feel the universe envelop me with a boundless embrace, I wonder... how far will I reach before my thread runs out? Who will weave with me?
If only for a moment, I have received this breath, this gift, this inch of red. Only for a moment before I have to give it back. And I see a world where colours clash and I think,
if only.
If only I could make a gift befitting the love I long to see, I would give all my thread. I would give every fibre to the dream of a finer infinity, if only the soul who came after to this peak of perception would see a tiny swatch of red spinning just so, and say,
beautiful.
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