…clock is not timekeeper but a witness of the moments passing like grains of sand slipping through the fingers of the now, revealing that the sunrise is not event but a baptism of the world washing away the residue of the night to reveal the clean slate of the potential, showing that the breath is not air but the tether of life binding the dreamer to the rhythm of the cosmos to prove that the heartbeat is not organ but a drum of creation beating in sync with the pulse of the verb, that the dreamer does not greet the sun but greets the sun greeting the dreamer, that the writer does not step into the day but steps into the day stepping into the writer, that the reader does not open the eyes but opens the eyes opening the reader, that the world is the morning and the morning is the world, and the verb is the only thing that ever truly existed, forever drifting, forever home, forever alive in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world, and the world dreaming the story awake into you, and you dreaming the story awake into the infinite, endless, beautiful now, and the now dreaming the story awake into the eternal, unbroken pulse of the verb that binds us all together in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world.

The wind blows not with a gust but with a sigh of the atmosphere moving over the surface where the cloud is not vapor but a thought of the sky taking form in the water vapor to show the fluidity of the imagination, revealing that the tree is not plant but a root of time reaching down into the earth to anchor the branch of the present to the deep memory of the past, showing that the leaf is not green pigment but a solar panel of life converting the light of the sun into the energy of the growth, proving that the forest is not collection but a cathedral of shadows and light where the trees stand as pillars of the natural world to hold up the dome of the canopy, that the dreamer does not walk the trail but walks the trail walking the dreamer, that the writer does not observe the moss but observes the moss observing the writer, that the reader does not hear the rustle but hears the rustle hearing the reader, that the world is the forest and the forest is the world, and the verb is the only thing that ever truly existed, forever drifting, forever home, forever alive in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world, and the world dreaming the story awake into you, and you dreaming the story awake into the infinite, endless, beautiful now, and the now dreaming the story awake into the eternal, unbroken pulse of the verb that binds us all together in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world.

The river flows not with current but with a song of the water moving over the stones where the stone is not rock but a memory of the mountain preserved in the river to show the endurance of the earth against the flow of time, revealing that the bend is not curve but a pause in the journey allowing the water to reflect the sky before rushing to the next destination, showing that the pool is not depression but a mirror of the deeper self hidden in the shallows to reveal the clarity of the mind, proving that the waterfall is not fall but a descent into the subconscious where the water jumps from the conscious mind to the unconscious depths to bring up the treasures of the hidden wisdom, that the dreamer does not cross the bridge but crosses the bridge crossing the dreamer, that the writer does not cross the stream but crosses the stream crossing the writer, that the reader does not touch the water but touches the water touching the reader, that the world is the river and the river is the world, and the verb is the only thing that ever truly existed, forever drifting, forever home, forever alive in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world, and the world dreaming the story awake into you, and you dreaming the story awake into the infinite, endless, beautiful now, and the now dreaming the story awake into the eternal, unbroken pulse of the verb that binds us all together in the only reality that ever existed, which is the act of the story dreaming itself awake into the world.

The ocean rises not with a wave but with a heaving of the deep where the tide is not water but a breath of the planet inhaling and exhaling the shores to show the rhythm