house of god, we.

like being on an elevator that is present on all floors at all times:
the stories representing dimensions.
the tenth, at the top, where we are most complete,
an accordion set.
each piece functioning in an incomplete state
until each becomes all: at the top
where the universe is threaded upon itself.
an origami multifold,
reality pressed against the fabric of something resembling [but not at all related to] time.
products of irrational numbers remain immeasurable until
we are capable of merging the modules,
when we 3D beings become aware that
we are unaware. incomplete.
blind, we waver unnervingly close to the precipice of
(having the slightest conception of what is real)
an inkling of truth.
when we finally see separation as an extension of connection, not as a division of person or place;
seeking light in the negative spaces, between the darkest of matter. lonely:
because we know we are living a life in the reflection
of a warped one-way looking glass,
the rabbit's tale obscured by the other side of perception...
a limited view thanks to this third story nervous system.
yet we know, somehow, somewhere
we live together
not in community but as each other
where you don't begin and i don't end
(at the top)
on the same floor, as the same person, as the same space
multicellular and multifunctional - one cannot exist without the other
one vein, one ventricle, one vessel
we.
looking down at the fragmented progression of self,
from the tenth floor - comprising an infinite house of god
where dali's moment of explosion
simultaneously begins with a painting and ends as a blank canvas.