Not But A Knot Of Naught

How great and ever expanding are you, in all manner exceeding comprehension, and yet cradled yourself therein, beckoning, such that I would recognize in this organization the complexities of insight via those most unknowable elements of my own system, within, though I have sought foolishly without? How am I supposed to do that which I am supposed to do, given that my own origin is opposed to my own purpose, and how then have I any purpose, constructed and versed only in the disgusting and filthy, elected to praise that for which there is no hope, hopeful for that which I alone praise. In the first of four lie the proud and certain, grasping for the second, realities lungs held tightly so as to delve your alchemy, clutching that righteous and elusive peace, resisting the drown in attempt to drag the insight back toward breath, in the vacuum, in the order whereas desire represents the struggle of consequence, myself the consequence, myself elusive, myself yourself, yourself myself. Clouds ransom but a portion of the sky, revealing stripped trees, as snow comes, as I am stripped, reality ransoms but a portion of clarity, as fate comes. Having died countless repetitions I’ve lost the joy the season of living once held, no longer hopeful of the Spring nor saddened by the Fall, an observer of the flesh though not an inhabitant, an experience of humanity and yet not human, I am projected though I am not the projector, and I project though I am not the origin, I advocate though I am not the source, and I preach clarity pertaining to that of which I have only a fleeting glimps. I refer to myself as I, though I am not but a knot of naught. Purpose seemingly tangled, gnarled roots stretching out into space, sapping stars, this tree I climb anchored in galactic soils, in whose branches I explore shapeless golden faces, rings of light about their waist…

• D. M. Hutchins 2nd