The Thousand Things.Perhaps consciousness did not lose itselfby mistake.Perhaps this is what creation is.Light becoming leaf.Silence becoming birdsong.Water becoming wave.The unseen folding itselfinto colour, weight, touch, distance.Again and again,the one disappearinginto the many.Until there are mountainsand moths,grief and laughter,a hand resting on a table,someone looking outthrough a windowbelieving themselves to be only someone.The world is not an illusion.It is what happenswhen freedom becomes form.When possibility forgets itselflong enoughto become this.And this.And this.The thousand thingsrising everywhere ...each one so completely itselfthat consciousness no longer remembersit was never divided.Perhaps awakeningis not seeing through the world.Not escaping appearance.Not returning behind the veil.Perhaps it is the momentthe thousand thingsbegin to shimmerwith what they never stopped being.Consciousness,lost in the beautyof its own becoming.Looking out through you.Looking back.Remembering.