Between the lines we see what is but it is in that non-existence that we find space to spread the wings of the mind. Out beyond the borders, while inside we huddle worn and weathered from the broken storm of being. We spread dark wings patterned after the universal night. Breaking what lays between as pointless barrier. Walls fall in realities long distant. And what is, becomes.
And yet, still we are forced into the flesh of the moment. Relying on frail mortality to provide that glimpse beyond what is; to experience infinity one must first have a frame of reference. So we rise up and take a vessel. And live a mortal life trapped in the slowly decaying orbit which is called living. But until we snap finger quick out of one life to the next. We wander in this transition point. This hollow ache of slow perception which bridges the gap between anticipatory hope and the fresh burn of the new. Waking up, we find ourselves in the deep embrace of desire. One less step forward. One less day left in the traverse. All just the memory.
The patient gaze of observation. And the slow waiting for the next.