We are all but a tincture within the alchemy of consciousness.
A Tincture is the essence of some thing. An infusion from the other side, the unknown, the formless. Basho dedicated his life to the tincture of poetry. Einstein to the sciences. What about you? The essence is something that predates you, or me, and it is you and me. Art; poetry, painting, acting, music, hell even the salesman, the sciences, usually it brings joy, which is why we follow it, but it can also bring hell. What about emotions? Those are innate as well and you could certainly say that an emotion is the form that an essence takes. Part of the process is the discovery of what it is that takes you away. Then the other part is accepting it. Giving yourself up to it. I’ve spent so much time carving out these places of self, these self identifiers, laying down markers with material things. Though all of these things can only, eventually, bring me to a place of selflessness. When we are dedicated and focused, where do we go? Do we become infused with the thing we are dedicated to? In death does consciousness turn back into the essence which we’ve spent the most time investing in?
In truth I am not any one thing,
I encompass all things
Some are remembered from Aeons ago
Others forgotten entirely
Crushed under the weight of my ego.
I have the capacity to turn like the wind
To change course, in the split of a hair.
With my head in the clouds
And my feet off the ground
I look upon the blue convex horizon
And find that all the gods of old are dead.
But the daisies still pierce the ground in May