Why is focus so
foreground and center
against background and surround?
What is focus a grip
of persistent attention,
that replaces every fading out
with a replenishing a new,
emptying every chance of fade
in an attending way.
Focus seems is filled with
an un-changing-ness
yet noticing every change?
Why is there
the naming of everything
as if recognition
is focus's approving bond?
Is it the motivational work
of a subtler physics
to have clearer images
and have them more sharply in frame
as the goal?
Is the effort
to possess a certitude
that any two separates
held together
under the right conditions
of objectification
can be seen
as linked to each other
and that a meaningfulness
can be squeezed out
of their juxtaposition
into a single congruent thought?
Is the justification for this focus rigor
that all things, being separate,
are but their referential potential
for being in focus frame
which then yields the linearity
for the story telling to follow?
Is this why our method
of self-consciousness
casts a myopia against
the holographic sight
of everything at once?
Is it that our perchance
of self-consciousness
projects a fear of personal overwhelm
if it was not for our methods
of observation
that give feature and frame
as optimal mindfulness
of our ongoing reality?
And if these separates,
as our namables, were dismissed
or somehow lost or wildly misplaced,
that there would be
nothing to replace their loss?
That there would be no substitutes,
no other contingency plans
to safeguard us and to follow?
Would there just be
that indomitable void,
overwhelming and unencumbered,
with no boundary or frame
and with no words
to adhere or reference it
as if it was dispensed
from a seamless sky
encompassing everything
as we commonly refer to it?
And by this failure at naming
or even naming it as the all,
would there then be an atrophy
of our minds as our godsend cure?
Would we not be able
to embrace the full emptiness
forthcoming?
For there would be
no perceived recognition,
as we have come to know it,
no photos to restore our memory,
no flash deja vu towards remembrance,
no boundaries for laying claims,
no brimming
with conclusion’s safe guard
no beaming with what I have to share,
and possibly, the worst,
no naming of the bliss
coming forth from within ? . . .
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