“The safest general characterization of the European philosophical tradition is that it consists of a series of footnotes to Plato.”
–Alfred North Whitehead


I wonder what it is that turns the world round,
That hides the far side of the Moon from the Earth,
That sees with my eyes but cannot be seen.
Why is it that I have a perspective?
How is it that I exist as an individual,
As a piece of space wrapped up in time?
When did this capsule
Of skin, bones, and blood arise
If its growth itself is what pulled time from the void?
Where is the blue of the sky
Without me here to paint it?

However I wound up here,
Sense does no justice to the place.
I cannot see
That which begs to be seen.
What can be sensed,
What can be stood under,
What can be named…
None of this is what I wonder.
I wonder what it is that is.
Who is being human?

Whether I am chained,
Or I can fly free.
Whether the stars pull my strings,
Or the stage is mine to sing.
What I really wonder
What’s behind the scenes?
The seen is self-evident.
It is the seer that mystifies.
My eyes can reach to the end of space,
But still I am not satisfied.
Even if I could come to terms with time
(Beyond the categories
Of Past, Present, and Future),
What remains hidden:
The eternal,
The boundless,
The before beginning
And after ending;
That is what I chase.

And in so doing,

There is no gap,
No room for contradiction.
The known and the unknown
Have the same home.
It is me,
Each of me,
That binds the inside and the out.
It is me,
All of me,
That lights time
And blows it out.







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