It is real.
It is blessed with the actions and marks of the everyday.
Of industry. [PROFANE]
Of life. [SACRED]
Of the individual,
and the whole.
It is living and dead.
It is countless and 1.
It is Magic.
It is forever happening.
It is forever present.
It is ancient.
It is the beginning and the end.
It is the constant, for all people.
It is ephemeral.
It’s constant is it’s inconsistency.
It is transitory.
It is all matter.
It’s forms and shapes are not romantic,
they are matter of fact.
It’s colours are not for you.
It is brutal.
It’s representations are mockerys,
Hahahahaha YOU have no understanding.
It is never ending.
It is plural not singular.
It is out there,
and in here.
It is more than what you can see,
and ever comprehend.
It is not to be understood.
Everyone gets it.
It’s definitions merely act as fence posts closing it in.
It exists in all times,
all the time.
It is divided and whole.
It is a mesh, overlapping,
with gaps.
It is misquoted.
It is unemotional.
It is you that is projecting your messiness onto it. Your years of shit and love, overthinking, muddying it and making it complex. It is there, plain to see. You could fuss and say parts of it are made, but those parts that are vernacular are real. Those parts that are merely YOU feeling like you need to beautify it and order it and what ever else it is that you constantly feel you need to do to help dumb that deep-rooted awareness that you’re inferior to it, those bits don’t count. They're yours. Well maybe collectively as a whole they count, but individually they don't, they cant. They're yours and that's not what this is about.
