Have I really changed that much?

I no longer fit, like a note outside its timbre.

The note did not change, but the arrangement is gone.

The composition is neither wrong nor disorganized.

A note should not change the music.

For the music itself is the intention, not the chords.

Not even the sounds, for these are merely vibrations.

Perceptions, however.

Intention, like an arrow, an edge.

A line, a finite horizon.

Because our perspective is divinely enclosed: limits, choices, tones.

Delimitation, perfection.

Why this fetish for completeness?

Man is and is not.

He makes himself complete by being empty, like a soap bubble.

Circumference, membrane, volume.

And what is the bubble?

Is it the membrane, or the dimension it contains? And does it not contain infinity?

From blade to sheath.

The masculine and the feminine.

Dance.

The blade and violence,

the sheath and restraint.

Promise, understanding, union.

Not merely one or the other.

But the sum that remains from the parts.

The spirit is the sword.

Which must not be drawn.

For it will cut the present, the past, the flesh, the spirits, and space itself.

The ruin of love and the end of the world.

There is only permission to draw it in order to protect, never to destroy.

Creation, destruction.

And to wield it consciously, whether whole or fragmented: perdition.

God is the sole keeper of destruction, for even death and the end cannot compare to reduction into nothingness, not from dust to dust.

But even without the flesh, without the bones that weigh upon us, without our beloved carcasses, when everything is gone, what remains?

When water evaporates, or solidifies, or changes its state, is it destroyed?

Does it simply disappear?

My sword, I have already forgotten where it is kept.

For much of the work resolved is concluded, and ready for the coming seasons.

Reflections, decisions, commitments.

So, music, where have you gone?

Between one timbre and another, among scales and compositions. Highs and lows.

Where can I place myself?

And, promptly, to revere God.

So that where this new melody awakens, it may be free to unfold without disturbing, nor throwing anything out of balance.

Harmony, extensive signals, frequencies, and energy,

the true miracle, order and rhythm.

movement.

So no, I have not changed that much.

I ask you,

When a drop of the ocean falls onto the sand, does the ocean become the sand?

Does it degenerate? Or does it simply exist in waiting?

And what remains of the tension?

Reasons, reactions, emotions, distinction, and disparity.

No.

I don't know.

I don't want to know.

You, me, and the bubbles, and the answers are in what exists between everything that can be touched.

The world. The universe itself.

Verses.

Discrete refuges.

One day, surely, when I meet the Creator, there is a certain expectation.

But it is certain that this experience, whatever being alive may be, even if it always remains unrevealed, seems to contain everything that needs to be lived.

Even if secrets breathe in complete silence.

And when spoken, they will already have made their noise.

Omitted.

The same, secrets, plots, endings and whims.

Between what can be known, what must be understood and what must be affirmatively comprehended.

Still, yes, they are all merely patches, only to categorize this experience.

but what about our vehemence?

Between man and technique.

Technology, methods, and our replicas.

Synthetic spirits, reasonably pathetic, condensed into algorithms.

Their own. Manufactured rhythms.

Gears and triggers.

Expansion, reduction, finally seduction.

Deception, humiliation.

Crises and Reprises.

Horrors perpetuated, stripped of their character. Disfigured;

From humans to data. Shreds.

Homunculi.

From phenomena to collections, labels, projections.

Frighteningly, rarely uncertain.

Even so, I offer this prayer. Do not surrender.

Even in despair. Whatever may come.

Even in inescapable pain.

Hear me for one singular moment, for one brief second.

Breathe, and see.

The cherry.

On the cake.

It is you, whoever you are.

Even in hiding.

Why, then?

That, beneath all these layers, you still remain unique.