......

A prisoner of time, resolute in the belief of the doubt of one's belief, drawing with one hand on a chalkboard the image of one's self in motion while erasing the image with the other hand.

Moths on the run, hiding from birds on the move. Broken wings. Missing feathers. No philosophy for philosophy's sake. Eat while you can fly and see and peck and swallow. Live and hide and fly to keep from being eaten before reproducing.

A curtain of falling leaves tuned to the rhythm of a Glass piece.

A hand position that says halt, a hand position that says come forward. Frozen in a tub of gelatin.

Letting thoughts go on by without stopping to say hello to their flashing frenzy.

Less exposure to the universe than a cosmic ray. Planet's albedo just as dim from a distance.

Searching for one word. Not serendipity. Not kismet. Not fate. Not destiny. The momentary intersection of local phenomena that reflects the infinite, happening because it happened, over with because it's past. Moment not good enough to describe a moment good enough to remember but knowing you can't keep.

If someone wants comforting imagery, then keep my observations to myself. I only see what I think I believe I want to see that I think I just saw. We know the facts and the truth are just words. The unidentified species of the flying object that just grabbed the other smaller flying object with its hard, pointed pair of clamping objects and flew off is just an image in my thoughts of what I think is a bird eating a moth. How much do I know and how much have I been taught to say I know?

If we knew that the universe is not the universe as we think we know the universe, what would we know? We say we are a water-based, oxygen-breathing set of unique organisms because that's what we want to say we know we believe. What will we know when we believe we know we say otherwise?

I know that someone(s) or some group will want to say they were the first to know they knew the knowledge of what we didn't know before but that's still just following the knowledge of the old paradigm ["still just," a phrase used lazily to replace more thought-out, thoughtful idioms].

I am what I believe to be one person whose life was transformed by knowledge that is not mine. I was trained to believe I am part of one species able to distinguish itself from others on the same planet because of its ability to adapt to all environments on one planet. I was taught that there are planets and solar systems and galaxies and super clusters and other temporary confluences in a nearly infinite complex called the universe.

Who am I to see that I should not believe what I doubt I was taught to believe? The roots of a potted tree will twist back around on themselves while seeking life until they choke the tree to death. We say it is a tree. We say it is a potted tree. We say the potted tree has roots. Where does the tree get life? Where does the tree give life? What do we say we know we believe is life? What do we believe? What do we know? What do we believe we know?

I sought and I found. I found what I did not know I knew or would believe. What I know is not important because I can erase myself as I go along without disrupting those around me who know what they know and believe. The beauty of freedom, of a kismet-like moment, is the freedom not to be who we said we knew we believed to be a moment ago. These are "still just" words. Those are "still just" trees shedding their leaves. That is "still just" a bird eating a moth. Perhaps the kismet-like moment is "still just"? What do you think?