A Differential

I’m walking past to see what I think is just a concoction; being:

Experiences of mere mortals, they said.
My galvanic life routine, I announced.
They’re all filled with such vindicated power.
Power of such magnanimous strength, vibrating with frequencies beyond belief and prowess.
All channelized through a creation called, man.

What’s the (time, space) glitch? Ask this.
What’s so localized to a faction? Ask this.
What’s the symmetry of a guaranteed living? Ask this.
What is it which is so unnerving and catches us off guard?
I asked this.

Only to have a diabolical archaic response of the force.
It takes forms of, a déjà vu, an obloquy, an exculpated line of thought.
All leading to question existence and its essential basis.
What indeed governs all?
Power I may say.

Power I mistook! For energy.
The energy reflects even while localized.
Energy affects space and time.
Energy provides Symmetry; as energy can neither be created nor can it be destroyed.
And that which caught thou off guard be only and only, emotion – a form of energy!

The feeling of ecstasy.
That of wry pain, hunger, love and immense empathy. Don’t these exist?
Don’t these exist while one boasts of apathy, holding it like a memento on one’s shoulders, pretending to be an abbot of practicality?
“If only, it worked that way”, chuckled musings of existence.

The Driven follows the driver, said the penultimate master.
Phase being a quintessential of the subject-in-question.

Simply, would the heart thrum with no sync with the body?
Would the wind blow and oxygen cease to exist?
Would the Earth rotate and not revolve with synchronized motion?
Would you love and not get hurt?

Each one for one, and
All forces shall hail.
Each personifying itself and continuing infinitely,
beholding no fear, no sense of advantage but, its truest being.
An electromagnetic wave is all it takes!

Kaput! Is the outcome when taken over by an impending sense of dependency.

And yet, to be wisely pendulous in ways beyond control procures a satisfaction, misunderstood by a dilettante.
Science and literary art hath not held a place for the misunderstood.
For none are.
All that comes, goes.
For all that’s written, at least once holds false.

Else, isn’t it only science?
The art of relying belief!
The constant.
The Northern star.
The ultimate concoction of life?

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