Съмновидение

Със годините избледняват

сетивата ми. И неясна

болката не боли, не ранява.

И не зная кога е пораснала.

С вкоравените пръсти на чувствата

аз невиждащо се протягам,

без да зная кога са напуснали,

неусетно от мене избягали,

наивността, любовта, изкуството,

благородството... добротата.

Със годините става по-пусто.

Самотата се напластява,

(не усещам кога е пораснала.)

Може би ме грози опасност.

Правя опит да се тревожа.

Но умът ми почти угаснал

да се тревожи не може,

само безстрастно поглежда

вехтия цвят на прозореца.

Може би има надежда, но

да я усети не може.

D. Zindell, The Wild

"Matter, he saw, was magical stuff. Matter shimmered. All the matter of the universe was woven of a single, superluminal tapestry of jewels, the light of each jewel reflected in the light of every other. Matter was holy, matter was alive, matter was but consciousness frozen in time. For as far down the great chain of being as he looked, down and down through the infinities, he could see no final form or bit of matter but only light. This was not the light of sun or stars, not the photons nor the flashing wavelengths of visible radiation by which he might behold the distant galaxies or the blueness of his own eyes. Rather it was a light inside light, purer and primeval, the light inside all things. In some ways, it seemed more like water than light, for it flowed and surged as a single, shimmering substance. It moved itself. It had will, was will itself. This deep consciousness that some called matter knew how to come together into ever more complex forms. It evolved; ultimately, as with man, it evolved to perceive itself and cry out with wonder and wild joy. This, he saw, was the essential nature of consciousness, that it was always aware of its own splendour, even as a cresting wave of water reflects the light of the entire ocean beneath itself."