Each Moment . . .

Each moment’s essence

is such a deep journey.

It was easy, as a hand me down.

It was a given as assumptions go,

much like gravity or breathing.

Each moment,

so much the constant

as the work room,

the sweatshop of experience.

Each moment is presenting,

at least as postcards from the edge.

Assembled as a collage of stimulus

combined with

an inner dialogue monologue,

displayed as a construction

and an account of behavior’s activity.

It is interfaced with people and props

that fill the space with attachment

to names and meaning and usage.

Each moment is as a garment,

worn out in a short amount of time.

It is worn but really how?

What is so slippery as to slip through?

So substantive yet vaporized and gone.

So the microscope would tell of fibers

and methods of woven-ness.

The fibers would be revealed

eventually as chemistry behind motives.

Chemistry, until there was none.

And still there would be some essence,

even beyond the electrical.

Each moment’s underside

when turned upon itself,

would yield to what to tell the truth?

Would that be attention,

focus or the power of concentration?

What would have to happen

to break the code,

to eliminate false entry,

to gain access to each moment

as an essence?

Would there be a strata,

as a complex

of interdependent elements,

a flux and flow

somehow propositioned by physics,

as a subjective of words

that invocated the truth?

Would this be the dangling of topic

to study the mechanistic tendencies?

Would every or any moment,

ever really consent to such conspiracy?

Would this journey of discovery

be so compelling yet complex

that return with essence in hand

could never occur?

That each moment,

when fully discovered,

would require a complete transformation

of passage, so much so,

that language and cognition and perception

would have been effectively displaced

as seconds away and for the real cause?

Would each moment,

as our humble assistant,

been revealed in some other way

as some other means?

A means that is

beyond reproach or question,

or even separation as distinction?

If so, then each moment

would steal from itself

to be in our being,

explore the countenance

of self-consciousness

in self-reflection,

epitomize the pathos

of comparison and contrast,

display the stretch marks

of time taken seriously,

wager an aging of doing

cross-purposed to being,

just to make this point perfectly clear.

That whatever baggage

of inquiry and concern,

that was brought upon this journey,

that whatever as possessed

of skills or talents,

effective as bloodhounds

of insights or inner wisdom,

would become needlessly gathered

for the task at hand,

as in, each moment in passing.

Still and instilled,

sighted and inspired,

there in lies,

each moment . . .