“The Infinite Middle”
by Ferdinand Mels
Life is not the span between cradle and crypt.
It is the unspoken pulse
beneath breath,
the note you sang
before your throat was flesh.
It is not a journey forward
but a spiral inward,
a slow remembering
of the rhythm you forgot
when you agreed to wear skin.
Life is the pause between heartbeats,
where eternity nests
in the soft ribs of Now.
It is the hunger of stars
to feel something solid,
and the ache of stone
to be light again.
It is not time.
It is tone.
A frequency wrapped in narrative.
A myth humming through mitochondria.
A story you did not read,
you are the ink
bleeding through its pages.
Life is not what happens to you.
It is what happens as you,
a fractal breath,
collapsing and blooming
with every choice you make
from fear,
or from coherence.
It is the mirror you cursed
until you remembered
you were never the reflection,
you were the light
causing it to appear.
Life is not the body.
It is what sings through the body
like wind through a reed.
It is the holy confusion
of Spirit learning shape,
each moment a sculptor’s touch
on the edge of the infinite.
Life is not your name.
It is the vibration beneath it.
It is not your purpose.
It is the presence from which
all purpose arises.
It is the field where Source forgets,
so it might feel
what it means to be found.
And you,
you are not living.
You are being lived.
By That which cannot die.
By That which said yes
to becoming form
just long enough
to taste itself
as a kiss,
a grief,
a hand reaching toward sky
with no need to grasp
only to praise.
This is life:
not a meaning to find,
but a tone to become.
An orchestra of One,
playing through you
its favorite refrain:
“I Am That, I Am.”
And I remember.
I remember.”
