Author: Michael Angelo

You sit in so many different places, in a park, in an office, in a subway, in a car. The scenes around you change, like maelstroms, like rapids, and yet the center remains. The eye is fixed, and it watches, and somehow in that watching, what solidifies the eye and differentiates it from the transience, also begins to change. Mountains once the pinnacle of awe become speedbumps on a road, and what used to stain the heart with disdain earns paternal empathy. The eye that watches becomes the eye of change, and seer and scene move adjacent to one another. It’s a dance, a dance of becoming, where the theme that drives the rounding and bending and turning and leaping does not end, instead ebbs and softens then hardens, quiets then explodes—and there is only beginning. You are a continuum, and when you reach a hand to touch the handrail, you are the cool metal turned heat and the pumping of blood within every artery of animal life. The pigeon that flies overhead is the freedom between your temples that millions around the world cry out for as they are crushed by the immense weight of your boot. How like a stampede you are, through rain slicked neon streets, through dry dead grass patched earth, through glades in the hearts of forests that circulate with red ants carrying the nutrients of a day left hot and shivering after the sex of life and death. The lamb is born, and with it the sin, and on the mountain meditates a Hindu monk that knows the letters that make up your name. It is his name as well, and that of she who lives at the base, the base of your desires and dreams and despair, and in the mirror shares your face. And somehow, with all this change around and within you, you sit, here, there, and everywhere, reading this.