What is This Thing?

And what is this thing we are a part of?

This living, breathing, undulating phenomenon.

What is this magic that birthed the universe? This matrixical mother of all experience? This Shivic creator and destroyer of worlds.

Do you really think we can catch it, name it, quantify it, understand it?

How can we be so certain we know more about the Mystery than those that have come before us?

We great namer of names, purveyors of semantics. Builders of tall objects.

We who can split the atomic fabric and transmit our thoughts through the ether.

Surely, our hubric dream has become Olympian?

Yet, one honest moment in the presence of unfiltered reality,

One unencumbered moment engulfed by the majesty of nature throws even time and causality onto shaky ground. Tongue-tied by the terrifying void beyond language.

How can we be so certain about our world when even our physicists are knocking on quantum doors and finding the mystical answering?

When the observer affects the observed?

How can we claim truth when we visit undefinable worlds each night? Being re-born each morning to a world humming with Magik.

When plant matter can show us the heavens and hells of our psyches?

When sentient life can emerge from the womb of a woman and return to the womb of the earth.

When black holes can swallow light, gravity, time itself in a Kalic dance.

Even at its most mundane:

We live and die on a floating sphere

spiraclicly

speeding

through

space.

And you tell me we know what this thing is?