The tree, that noble symbol. Shall we strive to be the redwood? It climbs by design, casting its peers in shadow, drinking the last drop of light with insatiable intent. In its desolation, something new festers—hungrier, thriving, sucking on what remains.
Silent at last—no gnawing hunger, no corporeal beast begging for its desires. The final prize—one that exists only in the mind’s eye. Truth is over there, somewhere. Lay down the sword, if only to see its shadow—barely something, yet more real than illusion.
Not all, but enough. The last step before our instruments fail. Faith.
There are other ways to move—paths that do not rise, but unfold. There is no ascent, but a recursion—each step forward only revealing the next. Beyond that, who knows.
Constants hardcoded into the universe—immutable limits. The speed of light, the rate of time, the silence between quantum and relativity. We break things down to see them clearly, to escape the blindness of familiarity. A child draws eyes as circles and dots—not because they see, but because they remember.