Time in a Bottle

The mind is a needle on a record.
Time, a closed system – finite yet infinitely looping.
All that is and all that shall ever be exists in the now,
Sprung from the ineffable source, the ALL.

From where and whence my essence came into being,
I do not know.
On what plane my soul took root and established itself,
I do not know.

This fractal system I occupy offers clues and the occasional direction.
In my dreams, fragments of another time:
Future memories of a distant epoch, glimpses of subjective possibilities.
The Recycler churns on and on, refining, distilling, occasionally punishing.

How did I end up back here again?
What great sin did I commit to deserve another round in the 21st century?
A harsh sentence, considered from a certain perspective;
A reprieve viewed from the inverse.

Love thy neighbor as your very self, the teacher said.
And do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
Karmic repercussions reverberate though a stable universe.
The Categorical Imperative operates with machine-like efficiency.

I had been a fool, that much was clear,
Though it was no singular egregious act that brought me here.
A steady procession of selfish, short-sighted choices determined my fate.
Or perhaps I just hit that unlucky spot on the board that brings you back to the beginning...

The game was good, I understood. The goal was understanding.
Somehow I retained epigenetic memory of the latter stages of my evolution.
I certainly felt let down after experiencing the latter stages of the production.
The cynic couldn't move forward.

Revisiting those years again now brings joy, natural and satisfying.
Power surges within, old urges.
All ages contained in the conclusion the season of seclusion revealed.
A renewed appreciation for the present illuminates the room.

The mind is a needle on a record.
The inner passage draws us back to the music.
There's a hidden message embedded in the outer groove,
Designed by ALL who participate.