Web of the Unseen

If we come from the universal, are woven into its threads,
how can we know what it is?
To see the whole, we’d have to step outside,
detach, look back at the vastness—
but then, aren’t we no longer part of it?
We’d lose ourselves in the seeing.

The universal, the beginning and the end,
it holds us all, but still I wonder: is there more?
We are bound by our limits, set perhaps by the stars,
by the web we’re woven into, or maybe by ourselves.

Our understanding is primitive,
a spark in the dark, a fragment of knowing—
and yet, there is that other self,
the hidden one, waiting in dreams,
reaching through the haze of our waking hours.
It whispers what we can’t see, what we can’t touch,
the things that lie beyond the boundary of logic.

Everything, alive or not, is tied together—
by what? A web unseen, delicate as breath,
where one tug sends ripples across the whole.
Even my own mood, a passing shadow,
brushes against others, shifts their tides,
a butterfly effect in the smallest of ways.
So what else trembles when I move,
what strings pull and sway?

I know I am here, part of this earth,
living on this planet with creatures I’ll never understand,
each of us caught in the same strange dance.

And this planet, just one small piece of a vast, quiet galaxy.
How many worlds lie beyond my knowing,
how many stars hum their own secrets?
I am part of a whole I’ll never touch,
but still, I feel it there.

And within me, a universe of lives unseen,
countless tiny beings who feed and thrive,
reliant on my breath but blind to my face.
They live, but they’ll never know the mind they dwell upon,
no inkling of the thoughts that rise and fall.

How strange to think of myself as both vast and small,
a part of something infinite and yet unknown—
to know there’s more, always more,
just beyond the edges of what I can see.