We are made of threads like balls of yarn that stretch between bookshelves that are far apart.
Like knowledge on pages spread like melting butter our thoughts expand beyond the edges that contain us.
Such as it is we cannot be contained, but rather, continue to expand our thoughts and consciousness beyond that which we thought we knew.
And like the butter who first thought its destiny was to be only milk, so too are we transformed by the alchemy of existence into something more than gold.
For gold is a precious metal formed by millions of years of geologic processes; but we are the living thoughts of the universe given form.
As such any attempts to perceive ourselves become tangled and we know not who, or what, we are.
For we are born into this clumsy, violent, rapid, empty, busy siren-song of flashing sounds and blaring lights and we are as lost as time-travellers.
For we are time travellers. That which birthed us so long ago slid (or perhaps did not slide) in ancient pools and oceans beyond our comprehension.
And so on and so on… until we not only had eyes, but also minds with which to fixate on this strangeness. But still we make no sense of it.
The oceans that birthed us still rise and fall and the memories of our ancestors linger within us, mostly unremembered.
Yet we are as much a part of those who came before us as our shadow is part of us. But is a shadow also a part of the ground that it darkens?
Then, are we also part of the ground upon which our shadow falls?