ALL THINGS FLOW
Everything progresses from node to node, from note to note, from paragraph to paragraph, from above to below, always bound by the inevitable gravity of cause and effect. This, therefore that.
And because we know this, we trace it backwards, from where we are now to what once was, to what must have been, unless everything we know is only illusion. The mathemetician, the musician, the writer and the salmon returning to the place of its spawning--we are all bound in that inescapable flow. Or rather, not like the salmon at all, for we may never return to our beginning--only look back, and wonder.
For our reality is not merely IN flux, changing direction at will, but is itself Inevitable Flow, forever progressing, in one direction only, as inexorable as Time.
Or perhaps it IS Time, this fluidity which is our only reality.
It alone is common to us all, whether we marvel at the Great Matrix with the mathemeticians or revel in the Music of the Spheres. We know that all things flow down to us out of the ages, that we ride the wave of inevitability, that if there is order to our future, it perhaps lies in the patterns of the past.
But in this is our despair, for we also know that those patterns end, that every river has its source. We cannot conceive of the wellspring that birthed us, for All things Flow, and we know no other law.
Thus it is here that we stand utterly bewildered, faced with a choice that is no choice, that either reality is eternal and alone, as the ancients believed, or that it--that We--are not Real, that we are Finite, that we are trapped in a subordinate layer of causality, and that we cannot get out. In the shadows of the unplumbable past we see the Shade of our future. And we fear.
All things flow