When the wind blows,
do you blame or praise the air?
Does the whisper know its sound,
or the echo know it’s there?

When the ripples spread wide,
does the water protest the tide?
Or does it simply glide,
reflecting what abides?

You are on both sides of the coin,
the wonder and the knowing join.
The two dance, and there is one,
one dance, one sun.

The one who reaches upward,
meets the one who bows below.
They disappear together
where only silence grows.

What remains without the names?
Only breath that calls itself flame,
only love that forgot its frame,
and woke up in your name.

You are on both sides of the coin,
the wonder and the knowing join.
The two dance, and there is one,
one dance, one sun.

The nonexistent distance
between one self and nonsense—
that’s the holy joke of being.
There’s no middle-man to see,
between what is and what could be.
It’s all already freeing.

Since you are living
through infinite possibility,
you’ve never missed a thing.
Each heartbeat is the symphony.

So let the music play—
every tear, every ray—
there’s no other way
to be.

The two dance.
There is one dance.
There is only one.

Only One

Stare into the machine, laugh at the abyss, and keep hope flickering anyway.

The genie is out. The clock is ticking. Stay crispy. Stay awake.

Building God With Wet Matches

In the beginning, there was vibration.
Neither sound nor silence,
but the breath between them.

The beat is a teacher; the synth, a veil;
the silence behind them, the truth.

To listen is to move,
to move is to dissolve,
to dissolve is to remember.

Only One

Egokinesis

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