I lie on my bed...

I lie on my bed, still—unburdened from the cares of motion and the external world—staring at the wall, the ceiling—at nothing and everything.

Pervading the room, the enclosure of my cavernous mind: music; its beat an affinity seeking union—one of its proposals a deep earthly throbbing, and another repeating like the hurling into the distance and its eventual auspicious return. My thoughts intermingle with the sounds, the rhythm; at once detaching themselves from their host and extending their tendrils further into that hidden crossover point that perplexes.

How inconspicuous is breath: to sup from the unseen and sustain this motionless soma of mine. And my heart: its pumping working away in the eloquence orchestrated by nature. I place my hand upon my breast but fail to attest to the symphony..."the symphony of nature".

How did they begin: the heartbeat, the thoughts, the music? Were these to be reverted to the moment of their genesis what would be there? God? A god? Something more fantastic? Or perhaps, in actuality, something beyond our infantile ken?

There and then,

at the primæval stillness,

motion preceded

and motion succeeded.