Singular existence, we can’t help but to believe it. Black existence is infinite. Not infinity but infinite. Not something that last forever but that is infinitely possible. Something like something more. There is always more, an excess, not excessively searching for more because the infinite also stops. Not stops for good but often stops for bad. To do bad things. Insatiable desires. Desirable things, desirable moods, desirable feelings. Feelings that continue. The infinite is behind where you stop. Beyond what you see but the problem with see is sight. How far can one see. So then, sight is not the answer perhaps the answer is what one cannot see. Then is sight useful at all? Only in a world where sight is seen as so. The infinite is already there, appearing as substance a substance with nothing inside. let’s create something inside of that something to give that thing outside sustenance. Nourishment for the mind body and soul. Warm porridge over a hot stove. Curry chicken rice and dahl. Damn that makes my tummy growl. The infinite is real. What makes something real if the infinite is all these things before us but also so magnificent it feels unreal? Maybe very real, or too real. Face reality, or turn your back. Nonetheless the imagination takes it toll. Pay the toll, Pay your taxes. Your debt to society is all that you owe.
Why do we feel the need for endings. Endings and begins. Beginning; even finishing such a word feels nihilist. Destruction of what began or ended in such a beginning. Speculation, articulation, mental flexing of what became or become, or becoming, I mean what is coming? Pain and suffering, that is already happening or happened, I mean it’s a matter of happen. I mean a matter of time. What the matter with time? I think it must be a matter of space. Space in between, the space that is around, the space amongst us and through us beyond and before us. The space that constitutes something else the space that creates new space or allows for more space. Who is allowing what or what is allowing who? For me, it is about you. About us under the oak tree. Resting our heads, laxing our minds, suspending such thoughts of an everlasting time. Holding hands, not touching palms. Wait it’s the calm. it is so calming. Its what brings us together, close, in each other arms but not close enough. Not close enough for our souls.
The problem with the world is talking is so easy. It’s easy to confront something or criticize what one says. Action is not even the doing, often times action plays out as acting. Playing towards an action. Acting an idea of something. Something greater than oneself but mostly all about oneself. Is it light or lightning spark. Does the sun produce action or it is a form of action. What does the sun do? What is its ulterior motive? What does it want in return?