To escape death,
there is no choice but to live—
to move forward.
Movement is merely a passage
from one stillness to another,
like birds flitting branch to branch,
from one silence to the next,
from one reality
to another’s dream,
to the dream of those realities.
Stillness and silence—
the "not to be" of the equation.
Without silence, sound is nothing.
They are both:
“To be” and “Not to be,”
the yin and yang,
the seesaw, the wave.
Roads without arrivals,
mere echoes of stillness—
not yet spiraled,
not yet alive,
not yet departed
from the zero within
to the infinity of infinite zeros,
where multitude and individuality intertwine.
Orbits go nowhere.
They merely rewrite themselves,
cycling with minimal motion—
like clocks, like days and nights.
There is always a twelve o’clock,
where zeros are prime again,
where lines have not yet been impregnated with volume.
Zeros, like scattered dots,
spiral outward—
priming, expanding, radiating,
etching space into what did not exist before.
The radius longs to stretch,
creating both space and time.
Yet zero is always there.
It can never be ignored,
never left behind—
point, line, length, width, depth, time—
all clinging to timelessness.
Zero: the yang of infinity,
the twin yin of continuance,
eternal cycles denying infinity
by endlessly imitating zero.
The hands of the clock
never complete their motion—
prime again,
and again,
so time may go on.
