The purpose of Existence is to drag
as many colors, shapes and other
business in as you can leave behind,
and then to face the dark without them,
blind. To like this, you must be the kind
that likes things, not the kind that doesn’t.
Your eyes must never cry. But really not
to fret: dry or wet, the question eyes will
neither have to ask nor answer is what
vision is, or could be for, or was, or wasn’t,
could have been, or might eventually be.
“What you see, although you’re blind,”
you’ll hear from something that identifies
itself as Mind-of-God, “is me.” While
your heart is beating, what you feel about
this may indeed be of some academic
interest to somebody else somewhere,
perhaps, but it’s unlikely you will meet
him. If you sightlessly perceive him passing
by, though, and he smells delicious, go
ahead and grab and eat him with impunity.
Mind-of-God approves of any form
of eating. At least until your heart stops
beating. (Life is meaningless if fleeting.)
When will that occur? (In passing, whom
you might to decide to eat, of course,
may not be him, but her.) When will you
be gone? Everybody leaves at dawn.