In the beginning was the mind, and the mind was God.
Thoughts follow the labyrinthine path of the lazy day-dreamer paying attention only to the beauty of the stunning views on the way, ever forgetting to docket the geography and form of the landmarks.
The mind moves so fast that it spreads along its path in the form of a python, ever so long, getting longer by each passing moment, losing sight of its tail. It writhes this way and that in an attempt to unearth some secret, which it doesn't know by any of the five senses, nor by the cognition of its mind.
There is fear in the writhing. There is fear in the restlessness. There is fear in the maniacal pace by which it proceeds in a methodical manner, yet so seemingly random to the conscious mind. It fears the secret.
The convolution of the path it follows, the growing length of its body, partly due to the unwillingness of the latter parts to remove themselves from the scene they are part of, and the speed at which it moves, defeats it, enslaving it in a Gordian knot.
In this metaphysical prison, it makes futile attempts to move—to break free, fully knowing that death will be it's on...
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