moving up and down,
                                            in and out,

                    slowly changing the shape and movement of the sand.

There is a gap between my exposure to ideas and the moment in which I realize they already exist within me. Small changes are continuously and imperceptibly stimulated until they feel like an avalanche inscribed in me all at once.

I recently noticed that there is something about being encased in a material body that does not sit well with the spirit. Maybe this is why it attempts to move beyond its container through creation, beyond the holder required for its ability to create. The body is simultaneously the prison of the spirit and the only known medium through which it can manifest (its instrument to escape). In its need to flee the body before dying, one's spirit is most alive when it turns creation into uncontrollable necessity and spirituality into burning desire.

What happens to directionality when one understands that fleeing the body is only possible through an inward move? When it becomes clear as crystal that outward ascend is the same as inward descent? Extremity collapses the distinction between opposites: in the same way that extreme love can feel like grief and intense joy can resemble pain, the deepest dive into the body inevitably reaches a tipping point and transcends into phenomenological boundlessness.