and there came to be a man living in a child’s body, full of potential and without direction. blown as the wind would blow, thrown as the spray of surf ‘gainst the rocks of Time. the desire was hidden; concealed. without it, he would have died, this man-child, but know of it he did not. as the dawn broke, blue and red and cool a spark lept up. and where the wind had once blown him without thought, now it gave life to the spark. flaming, burning hot. to consume him and all that he knew. drowned in the sea of suffering, burned in the fires of hell, the child began to fall behind, ash-covered, smelling of the salty sea. without this child for once, the man looked behind him; saw no past. looked to his sides and saw only the shores of Now. looked ahead and saw the most magnificent Nothing. and in that moment he became clear. transparent. how had it been? what was to be? all forms moved away and apart, came close and together and over and over they danced. circles became necklaces of hope and promise. broken they weaved themselves into clothes of trust and virtue. worn out they fell to the sky and raised themselves one last time to the fertile soil. dead he seemed to himself. littering his own ground floor. and in the earth the reflection of his true greatness emerged. slowly, painfully, at first, then with something like ease the momentum carried him on and up and out of himself. out of himself he became greater than the wind and lighter than the surf-spray. mindless, beautiful to behold, the man walked on. clothed now in his greatness, all thoughts were actions. these led only to other thoughts which were actions as well. resting and toiling no longer opposites, felt as sure as the ebb and flow of the tides.
—ponder east, circa 2003