This Experimental Life

For isn’t all writing an attempt? An unmanageable grasp at the unimaginable, the scouring claws of words scraping against the edges of sensation, mapping out its boundaries. Not quite a cage, or even a chain, but a foot print of this place, we sense the impression it leaves but it can never quite be shared, as much as we chatter and chip away, always we’re left with this sense of being alone in all that we experience. And how could we know anything else? Locked within our own minds, divining for meaning in a chaotic whirl of blurred sensation, destruction and creation occurring all about and within us, the turbulent forces of matter and god, confined to eternal quarrel. But are they actually fighting? Or does one need the other, an inter woven tapestry of atoms mingled by energetic threads, I feel it all about us, the thrumming of all that exists, crying out in unison, a nameless song I refer to as all. It speaks itself, and we ignore it, as much as we try these simple written tools can hardly help us, its deeper than that, and to paint these shallow boundaries would blaspheme the truly profound.