the unnatural that is the natural inwardly,
is only that silent, unspeakable daily trauma and melancholy, which is
the nightly rejoice and invisible embrace before the morning rising of the pale;
before the full glory that is its zenith.

the divine will, or a gliding principle pulling me up into the skies,
is trapped behind the walls of skin, skin deep, my parasitical presence and finitude, in all its gnashing darkness and silent screams, heard over and over again,
which is a gravity opposite pull of a human, o so human consciousness; exterior and interior -
negotiated and mediated by what is the face that I can never see outside myself.

The third, the immanent third allegorised in the growing of hair, the growing of the body,
even the disintegration and its dying, but it is the voiceless charm that speaks silence;
the unknown spark that makes nuclear fission seems foolish; but it is the source of every blessings uncalled for, every manifestation in the visible, external world, that shows the narrow path, with all its thorns, trappings, ravenous wolves and obstacles of sin.


Is there a witness, a fourth? Another person who has to reflect everything, and provide the biographies for the day of judgment? The always Other who sees me from the outside, staring, peeking, stalking and perpetually there.

Perhaps, whoever or whatever there are, there just is.
Peace, be still.