As the vein of spider silk drifts back and forth in a four stroke rhythm across the waters,
As the silvery bullets of flesh and muscle glide inside the waters,
As "all things merge into one and the river runs through it,"
A man stands alone and remembers.
Why must the lights of this world be so painfully extinguished,
While the darkness spreads, clutching at the very height of the sun's zenith?
Why must there be rocks in the river of time, memories, and life?
Why are people so blind to the "timeless raindrops" upon the rocks,
And the words underneath them?
Perhaps these questions personify the finite nature of humanity,
Trying to fathom the unfathomable, the infinite.
What would the river be without the rocks?
It would not be the river; it would not be the world.
It cannot be, for the world defies our attempts to define it
For all our wisdom, all our supposed knowledge of the universe,
"We can love completely
Without complete understanding."
We can accept without understanding.
And, perhaps, one day, we will finally understand Why.
But not by ourselves.
Until that day, we dream.