I’m so used to looking at things, not into them that I’m startled when I witness the space between our molecules of Being and come to realize: It’s not empty, this infinite sky, this eternal orbiting of day into night / into dawn / into the glare of high noon.
I wrote this morning in my latest revision of a fiction:
She glanced away then out the window at the sunrise he’d witnessed earlier; it had morphed into the blare of morning light the gorgeous tints of dawn burned off by the intense rays of a risen sun.
Will this epiphany of the dazzling light and its glorious host of questions well once again at at the end of day?
Can the invisible be divisible?
Is it my plight to know?
How many times can we split the atoms of our truths before we discover the ultimate germs of Infinity, Eternity, Omniscience, and Spirit?
