as time numbs still as well as fast,
silence still twitches among the tall grass.
when a tree falls in a forest and other paradoxes,
does the earth still spin, waves and tides still dance, clouds still form and disappear?
your mind hums in its house, like a machine,
or perhaps more romantic, like god waiting for the will to create.
but there is a world that continuously and quietly and instantaneously creates itself without you,
the sky being brushstrokes made by its own hand,
a brown hare rustles the brush and crickets are singing a new song no one has heard yet.
snow melts for another year and freezes again, they say no two snowflakes are the same.
somewhere and some when, it never really matters,
the stars shine like tears in sky, a beast in the woods lifts its head,
and down in the meadow, a million quiet things breathe and buzz, are born and die,
softly and tragically, loud and beautiful.
there is a world that does not wait for you, never waits for you,
whose existence runs parallel to your own.
The God inside you is waiting, hungry and unsatisfiable,
but your tired body joins the creatures and little nothings of the world,
and you become the glorious nothing that all things are
and must become.
