Time is the distance i traverse, walking from my home to my neighbor’s—who happens to be a member of my family—we’re surrounded, by our parents, our siblings, and our children, beyond that, we see our grandparents, and our grandchildren, and so on and so forth—each person placed within each loop, according to the importance they played in our lives. The landscape i see, in the distance, is a little different than the one that others might see, because it is a function of my influence. Thus, my parents live round me, and my grandparents live round them—but, also, in my world, they live in a loop beyond my parents, so i see a combination of the landscape they see, the landscape my parents see, from their origin, and the one i would see, from my origin.
The loop, as a two dimensional curve, represents two dimensions, and the direction i am walking, a linear projection, represents a third. I imagine, beyond time, a fifth dimension, a final dimension, represented by the instantaneous direction i take when my world overlaps with another’s. I live, as such, in a universe of infinite perspectives, which boils down to my perspective, in flux. So what, then, is this 4D existence, but the shadow of all my various perspectives, over all time, collapsed into one perspective, that lasts a finite amount of time? Consciousness, then, both continues, in a sense, when we die, and, also, dies, in a sense. I merge with my infinite self, who, as me, remembers this mortal life; but, at the same time, there is no waking up—there is no moment, upon which the wool is removed from my eyes, and i pick up my day to day existence, and the memories that went with it, where i left off. Indeed, there is no moment when i realize, all at once, that my dreams have come true, that there is, in fact, an afterlife. Instead, I simply go on living a life that existed long before my 4D birth, throughout my 4D life, and after my 4D death.
I notice, at once, a peculiar dream,
in which, speaking French, I wonder at what
point, in the next life, i will find a seam,
and, from that point on, remember all but
the future. But, i fear, there’s no such luck,
since everything happened all at once,
and, therefore, the life, for me, that i’d shuck,
doesn’t point from some wayward nunce
to Him. Beyond, then, what I can imagine
in full—He is aware of every moment,
and yet, at the same time, i hear the din,
sequentially, of all the time that i spent,
and all the various cycles I would live,
radiating outward from the sum.
No cycle means more than the life i give,
approaching, at every point, kingdom come:
But, i ask, from the present, did i miss
out on the past? How can i be here and there,
conscious of the both of us? Yield to His kiss,
then; I insist: we live, under His care,
from that moment forward—and that moment,
because of His extension, lasts forever.
So I approach the time for which i’m meant—
the present: i join the life i’d prefer,
happy to live the life i’m living—
which i’ve lived, ever onward, all the while,
conscious—at one with everything,
walking, in step, with Him, a country mile.
So, I’m living, for Him, simultaneously;
He remembers, necessarily, what I do not,
dreaming of a future that can only agree
with the soul that He, for me, once bought.
Because no life, no cycle, is more important
than the rest, i live, continually,
each one of them—and, as such, the hunt,
for truth, resolves itself indefinitely.