With our fangs of taxonomy muzzled with wonder,
as the alluring fragrance of mystery provides no substance for their bite to
seize, we are drawn toward its promising source. During that earliest stage of
our encounter, we dare to look closer, and quietly step forward, slowly
becoming aware of a latent form emerging out of the formless, secret garden, as
a cloud would gather out of a homogeneous haze, slowly transforming into a
barely perceptible, faintly budding,
chimerical sprout – as we step closer, the quivering penumbra of this autogenetic presence remains unstartled, as the zephyr of wonder conceals our scent. Every such step is what we call
metaphysics.
Captivated by this animated apparition, as it
blossoms into a seductively incandescent form, we pause mid stride, reach out, and grasp it. As the phantasmagorical fog of indeterminacy recedes, we remain
transfixed by the now tangible, floral epiphenomenon, quivering weakly on our
palm, its vivid fragrance stirring a familiar, sweet melody – of the lullaby we
loved so much as children. As the abandoned blossom quietly withers before our
eyes, its poignant odor reverberates into the somber motif of a Requiem for
metaphysics.
We’ve clumsily drawn on the eternal sands of
mystery’s boundless shore the laughable content, and modus operandi of our mind
– the sad part lies in the inevitability of that outcome – we carry the stigma
of our finitude with us all the time, and before long, its viral character infects
any realm of being, totally.
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