The Circle

By Sierra Karas

 

When did it all begin?

Did it begin when I was born? Or was it at the conception of me, nine months earlier?

But no, I am much older than that. My soul didn’t begin then. How would I ever know if I had lived one life or two or three or one-thousand two hundred fifty nine lives?

When was my soul born? At the conception of this planet? The imploding exploding of the stars. I don’t know where I come from. I don’t know when “I” start, started.

All I can see is a circle, an infinity, a never ending cycle. A knotted yarn ball that has no answers. Even if you get the unusual opportunity to see both ends of the string.

Each day we crisscross over each other. There is no true beginning, but there is no end either. Because the absence of something is either replaced, filled, morphed, or let alone. I don’t want to get caught in the limiting beliefs of tomorrow, yesterday, never, forever, everything, nothing. They are all the same things.

In this unraveling of the yarn, it has only became more tangled. That’s how yarn is. That’s how Life is. That’s how the continuum is able to continue. In searching for answers everything has the ability to become more tangled. It’s like a big knot. You find a place that you think is the start or the end or some way to untangle it. You follow it for a while: untwisting, ducking up and down, weaving it and looking for the end or start or middle, but in doing so they all look the same. You thought you were on to something but it’s just left you at an identical different place.

That’s a knot, while our lives are more like a ball of yarn. Who is the cat? Are we also the cat chasing Life up and down the halls, infinitely entertained by something not so entertaining. Are we a cat chasing after strings that goes nowhere? The illusion suddenly shattered by the sight of a hand, our hand, pulling the string this way and that, pulling us, the cat, this way and that. Maybe that hand is god? But probably not, god’s got better things to do then play with cats. We are the hand just like we are the cat and the yarn ball. We are everything because there can’t truly be something that’s separate from us. Because we are everything, everything is us, nothing is us, us isn’t us but it’s still us and we and you and me and him, her. God, dog, cat, yarn ball. We are just going along with the infinity. We are a washing machine going around and round. The universe is that washing machine. For we are constantly being tumbled, circled, cleaned, tossed around like a lifeless piece of clothing. We are a lifeless piece of clothing. We are a shirt who’s tangled with some pants that’s hit by a sock and another sock and now there’s a towel. A washing machine is a black hole. A sucking, spinning, machine, that has the innate ability to eat up socks. Because we are socks, actually a single sock. We are a single lonely sock that’s trying to get back to it’s match. We are of course then the other sock too, for we are everything. Our essence is sprinkled everywhere. Like a single sock. Like glitter. Like a single piece of glitter that will be eternally stuck in the carpet or to the bottom of the craft bin. We are sticky and sparkly and once we’re here we’re not going anywhere. Maybe that’s why we’re still here, because we are a stubborn and mind-boggling piece of glitter that some how got sprinkled over the galaxy and now we’re just stuck. Because we’re glitter. Because we are a yarn ball of experiences and feelings that are so connected that they’re the same thing. Its all the same thing. It’s stacks of paper so thin that you could never tell if it’s actually two or three or a million pieces of paper stuck together. Forever to be defined as one individual million things.

That’s time. Everything is happening simultaneously so you could be 1, 4, 5, 16, and 78 at the same time. Stuck in some gif that keeps playing those five seconds, the billion and one 5 seconds, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and overandoverandovernandoverandoverandoverandoverandoeverandoverandoverandoverand. Because that’s time. Because there is no time. That’s what’s got us so confused. Time is a human-made construct and that’s why we live such a miserable sorry Life. Time. Which isn’t anything. It’s nothing. It’s something used to explain the unexplainable, but we’ve gotten to that point in the knot where we realize there’s nothing more we can do with the string we were trying to work with. We have to go find a new string. But we can’t because we’re some tantrum throwing toddler who believes we are the ruler of the universe and by consequence we should be able to untie this stupid knot. This simple knot. We’ve made everything so complicated. We want everything to be complicated so that we can’t figure it out. It’s self-sabotaging of the greatest extent. We are an angry toddler that can’t ask for help that can’t do anything except try to untie a knot to that we have no knowledge about, that we can’t expect to have any knowledge about because we’re a toddler and we don’t know anything about this world. How could we? So we just keep going because we don’t know what else to do. We will continue being a yarn ball, a cat, a hand, a washing machine, a piece of paper, a toddler, and a thimble. Because we know nothing. Our brain isn’t big enough to comprehend something that is is nothing and everything and one two three four things all at once. That’s Life. That’s the infinity. That’s the circle.

Beginning or beginnings are just a concept. Another man-made construct that is put in place to feel as if our world has a little tangibility. But it doesn’t. That’s what makes people so insecure. They are scared of the infinity. Of oblivion. Of the crushing sensation of floating tether-less in space. Even though that’s exactly what we are. We are on Earth, a glorified rock that is suspended in space with us, the specks, some infinitesimal and inconsequential people who call the Earth ours. It’s not. We like thinking that we’re the top of the food chain, that we hold all the power, but power is just another construct meant to mislead and comfort. It doesn’t matter if we’re comfortable or not, because we aren’t the top. We aren’t anything. Universes would continue without us.

The things with true power are the things we cannot see. How the world spins. How atoms vibrate. How light travels so fast our eyes could never see. All of these things are their own little miracles.

Be that as it may, it makes Life seem pointless. But what if that’s the point, that is to be pointless. Then would it not be pointless because it has a point, even a pointless point at that.

You know when you’re trying to figure out how to spell a word, but as you spell it and say it over and over the word slowly transforms into something unrecognizable. Everything sounds wrong and foreign and you don’t even know what that word means anymore. It’s in another language. It makes you question the universe. For those sparse seconds you realize how tight the string is wound, how weird this world is, how upside down, how…..but then it’s gone. It slowly faded as you were thinking about it. You followed the sting, and it lead to more string.

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