Beyond the horizon, in the woods, a tree falls. Under it, I stand not.
I know not. As blind as a monkey, I do not feel the living sound of a tree falling, over my horizon.
I do not see the sentience of the strange. For, I am. I can not lend the tree a hand.
And God walks in and says, "I command thee to love thy neighbour, even the most strange."
For if not, how small become our own horizons? How finite our material lives? If we cannot imagine
or convey, the sentience of the strange? "I am", is our singular fault. Original sin. The essential germ of hubris
That would eat the universe through ignorance if it could. But it is balanced, for we know, as we name
all the little games and players within our own horizon: We know we cannot name what we would not FEEL...
I may not hear a tree falling. But I can feel. And God knows this, and laughs, and says:
Naming Ape, label all you can, control as far as your technological arms can reach - but sleep
And remain in my wonder. You cannot name me. The highest priests are all dead. They have left with my name.
What is it? Yahweh? I dunnoid? Jehova? L'estrange? I say, I am the least and the farthest, outside of your hands
But inside of your heart. Think of all of Nature, in it's infinity and complexity, as one holy force, and perhaps
You may call me Nature. But you can't. You cannot even brand a tree falling beyond your hand...
And so. Feel me. I am naught. Love me, in the sentience of the strange, in the lowest, the lost and overwrought.
I am the whisper of mystery you must cherish in your heart, before you step to see or grasp. Feel first.
Ask questions later. And don't forget to get your taxes in on time this year.
You silly goose. Amen.