Lines

How do we justify the intellect as reason when reason lives just on the front tip? While the emotional mind below occupies our greatest mass. Or the mind itself, assuring what we are, through the domineering symbols of prescience.

What is not yet, becomes for us what must be, while what is, weighs down like a cinched bag of invisible objects we must forge through.

The front tip asks, devoid of wonder, how these inefficiencies might be reshaped to grease the line we must pull ourselves along, in that quest to reach the prescient state, where the bigger animal mind, invisible, might allow rest.

And forgets, because it never knew, it reasoned like a wire grid with perfectly square gaps that no true objects fit.

It cut them in attempts to squeeze past and reach perfect two dimensionality where all drawn lines meet in the symmetry that cannot discern beginning from end. The front tip small, using tools that do not rise, scratches forward, back and to either side. While below cuts drip down leaving the plane of sight. While warm whispers rise up, past, spreading into aether.

And in this, the front-tipped grid busy in designs, sleeps. And in doing so constructs a soothing curve, formed of inifinite lines.