The world exists in the act of reaching.
I move through this existence
as if through a dream.
Each leaf, each shadow, each voice
seems to know me.
But is this world alive in itself…
or does it only breathe
through my awareness?
If consciousness is the only certainty,
then the universe is not a stage,
but a mirror.
A mirror not of me,
but of my isolation.
The stars shimmer…
for themselves,
or because I see them?
The white rabbit in the pasture…
still, uncertain…
is it flesh,
or only the shape
of my longing for innocence?
Existence becomes a question
of how far I’m willing to reach.
To believe in the world
is to believe
in what waits beyond my eyes.
But how can I be sure?
Even love – so vivid,
so aching…
might be nothing but a trick of the mind,
a desperate echo
across empty chambers.
And still,
I choose trust.
Not because I know,
but because I hope.
I reach out,
and in the reaching,
meaning stirs.
The mirror shifts.
It does not show me,
but it responds.
Perhaps reality is not what stands alone,
but what awakens
when we care.
Perhaps the world finds its meaning
in the slow emergence
of every conscious mind.
- UpsilonA