THE AETHER | 1889
The I that is I remembers. Fireworks. Not the brightly colored displays that print themselves upon the retinas, but the idea of fireworks. Something I am supposed to do. This feeling of forgetting to have done something has kept me from embracing the I that is All.
How provincial to have bought into the idea of an afterlife where we remain ourselves. What a sad way to spend eternity. Every bit of whatever is left of the illusion of me yearns to be reunited with the infinite. I know now that we are but drops of water flung from the crest of a wave. Singular for but an instant, yet still made of ocean.
The ocean is deep and draws me toward itself. Just … not yet.
Román Leão 