Truth is a living circle –
moving, free, impossible to hold.
Like a child chasing a soap bubble,
we want to catch it.
But the hand that catches is the hand that breaks.
Truth held too tightly withers and dies.
The bubble can only land
on a still, open hand.
You cannot describe a thing without diminishing it.
Every word captures a part – and misses the rest.
But the symbol points,
and holds nothing down.
Before words arrive, the eye has already chosen for you.
You see through filters, narrower than sight itself,
but in a gaze grown still,
what was left out steps forward.
Our description of the world has gone so far
that we have shrunk ourselves into our pieces –
small fish in the ocean of consciousness,
where the lesser is eaten, in the end, by the greater.
In the perfect description of life,
a murder takes place.
But every extreme completes a revolution.
Whoever divides everything into pieces small enough
ends up holding wholeness in their hand –
and discovers that the gaze can move.
Captive in the small fish, free in the ocean.
The same you.
The ocean itself.
The world as we know it
is the shadow we moved into.
Truth is dissolved in the ocean of consciousness.
There we slowly freeze into pieces.
Some are crushed.
Some grow rigid.
The difference lies in how we carry our cracks –
the vulnerability it takes to be form at all.
Your own birth was the first piece.
The spark was struck – and became flame.
The chase is life's own play –
the passion of fire in motion.
In time the fire cools
into a sheltering stillness,
and forgetting is necessary
for the play to go on.
When reality grows too heavy,
we glimpse the play behind it.
Through the cracks, consciousness looks out
and is born again into a world
that suddenly proves to be far greater.
Out of that stillness, a new structure forms.
We unpack the box.
The puzzle is laid, piece by piece.
One piece offers no clue,
a few together offer a glimpse,
others fall into place much later.
For a long time it resembles nothing.
The order is chaotic.
The motif emerges and gains meaning
only when enough pieces have been laid.
The beginning can look like madness –
but so does a child learning to walk.
Slowly, you try your first steps.
Again – one turn higher.
And as the pattern takes shape
you realize
that the hand placing
the final piece –
is the hand reaching for
the soap bubble.
