From the deep shores
of the abysmal trench; from the sea's depths, we dredge our ignorance and name the mountains of our unknowing. Here comes the unclassifiable.
Imagine a rowing boat, a gently gripped coracle drifting before the wind. Now see that this scoop of the possible holds you, and there are supplies for the day, there is water to drink, and you are warm and dry. Imagine there is no problem, you are utterly exposed to the elements, yet this was always the intention. You imagine an unlimited horizon, although the horizon knows you full well.
If you linger and allow the drift to go beyond dusk, the immeasurable heavens appear. The aurora has been burning all year, etching spirals over sea and land.
Below you there are mountains that have no name.
The all-rush of not knowing grants access to a steady realm. Great reams of elucidating constellation and scientific dreams run through an educated heart; silence is spooling like an aurora over the rich intuitive darkness of a body. This body closes into bright compartments, stacked and ordered, with the aid of objective knowing.
It is to open up the boxes that we float above unnamed mountains
and drift against deeper shores, moved by a surf which does not crash into sand but scatters the granular flesh of knowledge.