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I am here; am I not?
The plum tree drips its blossoms,
does it not? Clouds drift
and expose the moon,
do they not?
The vast equation of things
aligned in my mind like pictures
on a wall, so clear,
as to make them near and fast
to my person, as is my skin,
and yet...
a piercing trouble,
an arrow of painful doubt
comes from afar
and in a moment
[that may have taken years to mature]
I see nothing;
nothing become palpable.
A treason of the sense of thought,
a slipping back into vegetable newness,
the heavy calmness of the ocean
that knows only its atoms,
and of course, a darkness,
a sad melody of resignation.
Truths, writ large, appear
like monsters in a frightening forest,
and they speak in tongues I know
but do not know,
and they say:
You are composite light,
filling each moment,
and nothing more than that.
You are waves without media.
You are paths without destiny.
You are planets without orbits.
You are nothing inside its meaning.
You are madness without release.
And while these truths erode one sense,
they create another one.
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Evans Experientialism
