The fluid moment.

Does entering the moment bear any metaphor at all?

I enter the moment and find that even I am not. It is like vast space. Nothing is there, and there are no possible boundaries. Even infinity does not begin here. No lightning speed will strike, though quickness abounds: here but not here, presence eludes and dances without ever being caught. Yet the echo bounces just out of range and the touch retains an eternal imprint.

Then again I enter the moment: the richness of this world, filled with animal affection and wild inverted wisdom comes to sit in my heart and makes all my experience so light that everything floats.

I enter the moment and make all meaning to find that meaning unmakes me. I have never properly existed.

To enter the moment is to cease as a single drop and become the river. The ocean is not far away. The rain falls. All flow is related.

Entering the moment is a short step within eternity. To grasp that being alive is no threat to the sense of self. One sharp, clear bird call. Sea-smell, with coal, drizzle and a steam-engine's hoot directly out of childhood. A pair of eyes, another and another, and such a promise within all these. That all possible moments are in this moment, yet none will ever be owned. That presence is not about my presence. That questions fade in the light of one real answer.

I have moved from one human mind to another to another. Having spun the web, I have gone into hiding to await the prize and have been eaten. The web quivers imperceptibly, invisible until lgiht finds it. The human web waits in its own history, delicate with dew, cruel in intent, wordless. No concept escapes from the clasp of time. Too much carefulness loses the sensitive touch of freedom.

We have told so many stories to enter the moment. None hold for longer than the narrative does. Indeed, the truest stories hide the truth of the moment.

Is the most precious thing to touch the truth of another? That also is a metaphor. To touch another's truth is to touch your own grief, and vice-versa. We have to open that door wide, and pass through, to arrive beyond joy and grief, which are pointers that we mistakenly take as purpose.

We can't approach a real sense of purpose until we pass through the door of joy and grief.

An open door is open on both sides. The fluid moment is extremely porous. All points of exit and entrance co-incide.

The fluid moment kills philosphy and hounds philosphers. Composers hear it, artists see it, poets say it.

Faith bears it, again, again and again.