Hunters

Riddle me this: in all these shapes & colors & sounds, in these tricks of the light and curves in space, in the sense organs that perceive them and the twisted walnut flesh curve that interprets them, in the hallways of memory & the attics of forgetting,

do we get one single change to grasp at anything like the Truth?

The Truth we worship and hunt, we ignore and we invent,

with our flawed instruments we rewrite it in remembering.

we feel it at the tips of our fingers and we clutch with nails ragged from peeling back our eyelids.

we fear we will destroy it with our flaws.

(can it be held? do we crush it in our attempts at comprehension?)

but

what if we are the instruments and it imprints itself upon us– yawning and crooked as we are; what if we are the ones being rewritten.

Abstract as it is.  Capitalized or left humble,

IT is bigger than us.

Truth lets us pretend we do the hunting.

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