On God.

What you come to love in others is what you know to be good in you.

And what you see and enjoy in nature is what you know to be you as well.

The past feels like the future, and the now is all there ever was.

You're Never Alone.

We live in a world of imagination that has been birthed from the mind. Your apartment. The road. The computer you type on and the cup from which you sip. The sheets in your bed and the clothes that you wear. The boundaries and the guns that are shot in the name of the former. For everything created by man was first imagined, then molded from dust. You were molded from dust too. 

Maybe something imagined you. Or maybe everything just occurs. Is man’s imaginary world not but another arm of nature, no less important or magnificent than the rolling crest of a wave or the Fibonacci sequence. Our creations and aspirations another fractal arm of the nature of things. Of strong words that start with the letter G. Sentience doesn't seem to matter much. 

Zeno's paradox is conjured. It states that every distance has a halfway point. Halfway has a half of its own and three quarters has a half still to go too. Infinity. If this is so, how is distance ever traversed if you must first traverse infinite halfways. The practical man states that this is the demented offspring of mathematics and philosophy with its sharp pointlessness while the pragmatist will point out that in the material world infinity is but a mirage, for one cannot split a Planck length in two. Halfway exists only within our mind. Our imagination.

But why not? The Planck length is as real as the infinity of Zeno’s omnidirectional quandary of movement. It’s as real as gravity, just as ever present and intuitive as it is mysterious and beyond our grasp of understanding. Sure, we can describe the mathematical proof that defines the characteristics of gravity. We can provide a repeatable hypothesis, test it, and analyze the results, however we are merely feeding the curiosity of our imagination, that insatiable infant of flailing futility within us all . We examine the symptom and call it the disease.

Our existence is far more magical and unimaginable than we allow ourselves to believe. We are so caught up in attempting to understand something that we forget that the bootstraps of our comprehension cannot pull us above the threshold of our own logic. The map is not the territory. The words, the numbers, and the theories are not it either. 

Yet it's right there in front of you until you categorize it into something digestible and nonthreatening to the importance we crown upon our imagined worlds. The ego is clever and fearful, but you are not it. You are greater. You are forever and all there is. It will try and convince you that without it, there can be nothing but black and longing and calamity. 

But without it, as you shall one day see, as will I, that you will return to what you have been for always, and will forever continue to be. You will forget what you had forgotten, the price of playing temporary. The dust that collects into egos laughs as it dances and performs as something mortal and afraid. But it is not. And neither are you; for you are it, and it is you. And you play like the dovetailing seasons. 

Forget what you know. Accept that what you hold to be dear is but a play, albeit magnificent and beautiful. God dwells in halfway points just as he does in human squaller, triumph and mundanity. He plays in words, numbers, and theories. He laughs as he imagines, and builds and reaches toward a future that can be nothing but temporary. He passes through himself and conjures spontaneous and self-fulfilling meanings. He loves himself while watching you through his eyes and him through yours and you are him and he is you. 

And every once in a while, you remember. Like burning trees knowing the fractal lightning as it swims upward through its veins and reaches beyond and into the dark sky. When you can't quite fall asleep and you see a lone, miniscule dot in your closed eyed mind's eye. You can't describe it, but you can feel it. You can feel that you understand what it is and at once you know it to be god; tender and intuitive and playfully beyond the grasp of the cartographer and his tools. And you smile. 

You search for the words to corral it and it's gone.