I am the control and I am the variable, in this, my life.
The control is the tortoise that plods ever onward.
The variable is ricochet rabbit: Bing, bing, bing!
Racing hither and to, crissy-cross on my tightropes, laughing, crying and changing, the variable has lived many lives in one, from nothing to something and in between.
The control is unimpressed.
The variable cannot be repressed.
For all my experiments, I still hold only pieces and bits.
In the canyon below my high wire are broken dishes and my shiny assumptions that counted as truth yesteryear.
Once upon a time I saw truth as something to be sought.
The bloody shards below mock this idea of truth.
We have no truth, only moments of letting go of our precious baubles and learning to celebrate their smashing. Spirals, angles, trajectories, and time, affect our truth.
Our peeping eyes disagree on what we see.
Truth lies somewhere in your buoyant step, after, after, and after the baubles smash in little tiny bits.
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