I went looking for the thought
and found no road.
I asked the wind where it had gone.
The wind laughed,
for nothing had traveled.
I asked the wave why it moved.
It laughed for it was the water in the same place.
I asked the light how quickly it came.
The light said,
You are still measuring distance.
So I became quiet.
Not empty—
available.
And somewhere between
the one who sees
and the thing that is seen,
the world loosened its grip
on what had been.
There was no arrival.
There was an alignment.
And suddenly
what could not be spoken
was speaking through me.
I did not create it.
How could the cup
claim to have created the rain?
I had merely turned my open mouth
toward the sky.
Then I understood the Fulcrum.
It is not the place
where opposites balance.
It is the place
where what could be
becomes able to appear.
And the instant it appears,
the Fulcrum is gone—
not lost,
but already trembling
at the threshold
of what can appear next.
Perhaps this is why
the universe never finishes.
Every revelation
moves the doorway.
Every answer
changes the one who asked.
Every manifestation
rearranges the field
from which the next wonder
may arise.
And perhaps inspiration
is only this:
I did not summon the thought.
I did not chase it.
I did not make it mine.
I aligned myself
to the place
where it could manifest.
And there—
without traveling,
without arriving,
without ever having been absent—
it was
and my becoming became.
No past, no present...just next.
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