My body is separable.
not an element, not an axiom, not a fundamental speck.
Not a necessity, not an indispensable unit,
nor a cornerstone of the universe.
Tis a compound,
a compound of compounds of compounds,
compounded and recompounded across the ages
seeking unity
seeking form and function
liquid legos
creeping and seeping
onto each other, seeking growth
seeking life.
This body is separable
it was once synthesized,
and since then it regenerates itself
continuously
via absorption, filtering, and cleansing
a flow all its own
my body, ephemeral fountain of life.
Follows not my consciousness
my memories, knowledge, experience, identity,
the same path?
Are they not also
compounds of smaller compounds adhered, expressing life?
Symbiotic synthesis,
a building of specks of soul
a fluid of spirit
vesseled for a time
to, just like the clay body,
absorb and digest the flowing soul,
the consciousness it finds
the meanings it encounters
devour and use them
for its own ongoing growth?
Are you fluid too, my soul?
Destroyed you every moment ago?
Inhabited you other clays before,
and will you scurry away when this one breaks?
Will you allow, my fluid body,
your holdings to flow?
To notice what you take, use and hold,
and release it in due time?
Accept you both, my darlings,
that neither of you are truth?
That you world walker,
and you word weaver,
are but illusions of singularity?
That you are no fundament, no a-tom,
no primordial being to hold on to desperately.
But that you both rise and fall,
cohere and dissolve,
collect and burn,
discard and grow,
only within the world around you,
the universal river in space?
Can you allow
your flow to pour,
your trophies to go,
your wounds to show,
well-knowing that you as vessels
will die and rebirth
as you shift form and shape?
Will decay and fade?
That they were no truer
than iron ore is a sword,
than warm mud is a man?
Flow, flow, and synthesis,
periodic shaping, firing, and holding,
periodic growing, absorbing, dissolving.
Can you accept, my darlings
that you are no more meaningful
than a wave on the ocean
than a play at the theatre,
actors, feelings, dramas,
believing specific bundles of fluids,
exploring their shapes and concoctions,
combining the compounds,
that join to play for a while,
until the next shape is due?
Can you accept, little ones,
that you are naught but the evanescent shape of smoke?
Your identity no more than a weave of threads.
Standing waves, my darlings.
That is you in this rope.
Coherent and lively and graceful,
yet only shapes in the sand.
Space sand.
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