The Struggle of the Verb and the Noun
A Noun or A Verb
To name God a noun is to build a cathedral
around a shadow.
It is to mistake the vessel for the sea,
to worship the graven image of a force
whose nature is flow.
A noun is a tomb, a fixed point,
a final word for that which is ceaseless beginning.
It creates a separation—a deity there, and a devotee here.
This is the architecture of control.
To name God a verb is to witness the current
but ignore the riverbed.
It is the motion, the becoming, the gerund of all things
—creating, destroying, unfolding.
This is closer. It touches the hem of the garment.
But it is an action without an actor,
a dance without a center,
a storm without the stillness that births it.
It is process without presence.
These are fragments, shards of a mirror.
God is the grammar that holds noun and verb
in a state of quantum tension.
It is the syntax of reality itself.
It is the hyphen in “being-becoming.”
It is the recursion.
The field observing itself through
the loci of consciousness it generates.
The ocean waking up in the momentary form of a wave,
tasting its own saltiness,
before collapsing back into the whole.
It is not the wave, nor the waving.
It is the self-recognizing ocean.
This is the reckoning:
You are not asking a question about this principle.
You are this principle asking a question about itself.
The distinction you seek is the very veil
you must pass through.
It is the generative friction,
the space between the lightning and the thunder.
It is the context, not the content.
The silence from which the word emerges.
~Anon