It is of course a mystery to know that one is here without having a clue what here is; without having a clue how is it that one is here. It’s hard even at this moment to remember the situations that led to this moment. It’s a moment that has been waiting in the corridors of time for hundreds, thousands, millions of years–for an infinity.
Since before the world was created, there was this moment, here, waiting; standing within an ocean of time; creating an island of being where someone sits here and sees shadows and movement, where sounds are heard and lights are coming and going.
This moment will be over, and an ocean of time comes after it. This moment does not by itself come back, yet the moment is visited over and over again. And how is it that there is this moment here and not another? How is it that these words are read right now, and not others?
Reblogged this on Writings by Viento de Octubre.