A Series of Processes

Everything is a series of processes set in motion long ago by the first–itself a series of processes–begun when ending not-ever, but overflowing from the first in great milky gusts of star cloud.

Thus transmuted into inconsequential carbons that comprise me and my fingers tap clumsily at keys that register some runic approximation of my thoughts through processes yet arcane and not understood.

Brain cells and firing neurons and we know not what they truly are as thought and self, perceived, exist within a slab of meat; cut into thin slices enhance image, enhance, enhance until we eventually find a tiny image of an elephant stored within the brain–except…

It is no image of an elephant but an elephant, living and breathing and warm and large. And it smells like an elephant and it sounds like an element, but it lives here in this nothing-space between neurons.