Friday, May 24, 2013
What if the universe is an illustration,
Matta seems to say, just our assembly
Of images, some structured, and others,
Colors bleeding, a crystal seeking formation,
Ideas spinning with empty possibility,
Something the end of consciousness smothers?
A pilot, when the moon is full, will say,
"What a nice night for flying," but in space
Every moment is the same starlit day,
Or is it, without pilots, or the human race?
We strain to create boxes, not a shape
Found much in nature, only to escape
The elements, and that is how we think --
Though even boxes vanish when we blink.
Note: Loosely translated, the title means,
“How a consciousness is made universe (maybe)”