You might have heard something similar before: I have no mouth, and I must scream. The oxygen around me, though invisible, is nothing more than layers of subtly woven elements. These layers fold themselves into, and throughout, the very essence of every thought. They’re like quantum whispers, holding together the molecular agency that binds the ideas themselves. It’s a kind of unseen force—the tangible intangible that we breathe in, not realizing how it entangles us in the fabric of existence.
In another way of saying this, everything that exists is probably best observed in nature through the universal principle of conception. To be born is to die, and even as my thoughts wander—like a thread weaving between the present and the infinite—there’s a constant tug, a pull between life and the weight of its inevitability. There’s this deep, unspoken truth: the act of being born is itself an acceptance of mortality, an acknowledgment of the entropy we must carry, not only within ourselves but as part of the natural flow of the world.
It’s a kind of paradox, really, to breathe and know that each breath leads closer to silence. And as I sit in the quiet moments, where the stillness falls between folding chairs after a Tuesday sermon, it’s there that power resides. It’s in the pause, in the absence. Power does not rest in the noise—it lives in the quiet. The truth, as the Ancient Greeks always knew, is light. Omnipotence, the essence of all things, radiates from it. And all light does, all it can do, is reassemble truth and reveal it to obscurity, to the very edge of perception. It calls forth existence from the primordial casing, from something that would devour any that dare stand before it. It’s in that primordial chaos—the unformed matter that, when neglected, begins to shut down into entropy.
But there is, always, that thread. The snake—small, insignificant even when observed as mere bait for a fish, still carries the weight of transformation. The same weight we might feel, the same feeling of being eaten alive, of being consumed while slipping into cosmic mist. The chaos—its agents, its reactions, its causes—must obey the laws of logic. There is no escape from them. It’s a fracturing. A breaking apart. But in that fracture lies the opportunity for reverence. Reverence is not found in the whole but in the fractured moments, in the disassembling of truth to reveal something deeper. This fracturing, though painful, though chaotic, brings forth wholeness. It’s only in the collision with darkness that the light of truth can truly shine through.
And here, in this fragmented moment, the mind must begin to reassemble. The triadic structure—the division of thought into three parts—is the key. The fracture, the disassembling of the whole into parts, holds the possibility of reassembly. Life, existence itself, is a delicate balance of parts: the cause, the effect, and the agent of the reaction. And through this trinity, this necessary division, the world begins to make sense again, even if just for a fleeting moment.
This triadic mind, this broken yet beautiful structure, is not a flaw but a feature of existence. It’s a constant cycle, a never-ending process of disassembling and reassembling. A dance between logic and chaos, between birth and death, and the quiet power that rests in between. And as we embrace this cycle, this fracturing, we realize that it is through these very transgressions—the tearing apart—that we become whole again.
So, in this space between life and death, between the quiet and the noise, we learn to breathe with the knowledge that each breath is both a birth and a death. It’s the acceptance of the weight of existence, the truth that we carry, and the constant reassembly of self.
This is the truth, at least the one I’ve come to know: that in every transgression, in every moment of loss, there is the potential for reverence. That to be human, to exist at all, is to carry the weight of this cosmic fracturing, and through it, find a kind of peace. It’s not the kind of peace that is quiet, serene, or simple. It’s the kind of peace that comes with the understanding that we are all just threads in a much larger weave, constantly folding, unfolding, and reassembling. And perhaps, that is all we can hope for.
-cam d.s.s.
5:56 pm
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