"Just as clay is the reality of all pots, so Brahman is the reality of all that exists."
Slanted light cuts through the room. Dust particles vibrate in the air like corrupted data, system errors are made visible. They cling to skin, nest in fabric - raw matter's syntax revealing its innards. The mahogany table beneath my fingers betrays its true nature: this "solid" surface is pierced by microscopic tunnels of decay, revealed by its dusty veil. sem microscope
Dust isn't waste - it's base code seeping through, processing rubble that exposes the cracks. Through the lens: dead skin flakes mingle with dust mite droppings, clothing fibres, broken hairs, dirt tracked in by shoes, microscopic crumbs, paper fragments, mold spores, seasonal pollen, wall paint particles, and so much more. Each grain carries its encrypted history. We float in this cloud of shattered matter: proof that nothing stays intact. Everything leaks, pierced by this endless stream of particles jumping host to host.
Dust is reality's generative vomit, its binding force that ties together the fragments of existence. As it accumulates, it doesn't destroy but creates: layers upon layers of compressed history, material memories fusing into new forms. A glitch in the rendering that shows what lurks beneath. These grey clumps are death's sediment, birth's residue. Like corrupted pixels, they expose the void in all things - everything is just temporary aggregates caught in the endless drift.
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If we could embrace dust's wisdom - its light touch on surfaces, its drift between states - we might shed our desperate grip on permanence.
Only the quiet awareness that we are brief arrangements of matter, suspended in oblique light. Such awareness would push our anxieties to settle like dust on a forgotten shelf, insignificant in the face of the truth that we are temporary. In this lies our beauty.
I wrote the following little text as an interdisciplinary puzzle, because we, like the dust we disdain, are a collection of seemingly insignificant things that find their strength in interconnection. Dust is our mirror.
In the middle of the journey of this entropy, where energy dissipates and the uncertainty principle vibrates, I am what remains unchanged within change. Like particle and wave, I am together and separate, I am the collapse point of the wave function and the observer generating reality.
Infinity is dawn: "Dawn rose like a maiden, with a smile on her lips and a cascade of golden light descending from the sky." I am that unstable margin where chaos generates order and order precipitates into chaos. "The supreme Tao has no name; supreme speech has no words," and so my energy relates, connects, and transforms. "Charity seeks not its interest" As entropy doesn't seek equilibrium, but moves through it. I am the threshold. I am the threshold.
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