Every moment of consciousness
has its nanoseconds of tipping point
moving forward.
That, leveraged into a momentum,
is beyond subtle.
Only in the dig of the story
do we derive a nameable point,
an event driven description.
But truly the tipping point
has no discernable fulcrum.
Sure there is the fill in moments
extreme with drama,
bound by a context over a load shift,
as we then can, by declaration,
call that a tipping point.
But upon closer inspection,
all of life is on pins and needles,
way below depiction
or direct observation.
What we pull up
as our slide show for living,
are stills, slowed for experience sake
to hearty up on as living.
Where we are in the now,
is so complex and so seamless,
words could never arrive,
speech is a breeze
in search of a surface
of being to cajole.
The tipping point,
is without singularity as measurable.
This as means of moving forward,
yet declarable, is ever in the chase.
If I go out into the metaphorical rain,
when is it the tipping point of wet, (?)
then followed by, when is it
the tipping point of dry?
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