Existence. A blur of green sharpens into a blade of grass, on which quivers a small drop of dew. In a sudden triumph over friction, the drop starts a gentle slide down the blade, velocity increasing until it disappears from the plane of vision. One must imagine that it continues its slide until it collides with the soil below and shatters into a million shimmering molecules.
But never mind, for existence is expanding, encompassing another blade of grass, and then another, and then a solid wooden block, which resolves itself into a chair, and then a size twelve shoe, which is attached to a leg, and then, and then. And then the scene is set. A grassy lawn, sparkling in the late afternoon glow, is blanketed by a sea of soft white tablecloths with rows of chairs beside, upon which sit a collection of laughing and chattering couples. A warm swell of clinking silverware fills the air and a cool summer breeze carries the soothing sounds of a string quartet. For the curious, The Haydn Quartets by Mozart, though the specifics this author defers to the true aficionados. Strung overhead are paper lamps, which now, as the sun starts to fade over the rounded hills, begin to glow with a soft luminosity, providing just enough to see, but not enough to judge.
Suddenly, as one, to no apparent signal, the couples rise and turn, and now existence includes a large, square dance floor. At one end is a raised wooden stage upon which the tuxedo dressed musicians ply their trade, while along the edges folding lawn chairs sit amicably waiting for tired feet to dangle from their soft cushions. Pitchers of lemonade and punch provide the promise of cooling relief to parched lips, but there are a distinct lack of alcoholic beverages, lending an undertone of innocence to the gathering. The string quartet continues to play, and there is an upbeat tone to their quick, sure motions, leaving little doubt as to the next item on the evening’s agenda.
Stop, and observe. The pairing is perfect. Not a single lord or lady is without an evenly matched partner. Each couple is dressed differently, but in such a way that their own unique outfit complements pleasingly the outfits of those dancing close to them. And so the pattern spreads, so that if one’s vision were to encompass the entire, vast dance floor at one time from above, one would feel a vague sense of satisfaction, indescribable yet complete.
Have you observed? Pause, and in your mind, picture the scene, not as you would describe it, but as you see it, the absolute optical replica with a detail defeating description.
Now listen, and closely, for existence depends on it. A disturbance. The couples stop, and stare behind us at something that approaches without warning. We turn too, and behold a man walking, no, gliding towards us, leaving no mark on the grassy green field underfoot. His features are soft, liquid, feminine almost, and suddenly we are not sure that he is a man at all, and then we are sure that she is a woman, the most beautiful woman we have ever seen. Then she is past us, and as we turn to watch her passage, we see that she is a man again, and his fitted shirt reveals a muscular, confident body, and his gait is the sure stride of a born athlete.
He approaches the middle of the dance floor, and all the couples part in deference to his passage. In the exact center, he stops, and existence stands still. Then, she does a full turn (bladed spokes spinning on a shining wheel!), surveying with minute detail every atom around her, and begins to dance.
The string quartet has stopped, perhaps in awe of what they are seeing, or perhaps because they realize they are no longer needed. A hauntingly beautiful music fills the volume of space, and I begin to weep, for do you not see that this is everything you have ever desired! The couples, the string quartet, the lamps, the tables, even the very ground we stand on, fades away.
I turn to you, and in my overflowing eyes you must see the ecstasy, the absolute perfect happiness in knowing that this is the answer, that in fact there was never even a question. I reach for your hand and hold it, but even that is fading fast, and I turn back to the dancer, to existence, to the blurring of lines. The dancer becomes the reason for existence, and then, somehow, inexplicably, existence becomes the dancer.
Singularity. The dancer stops, listens for a timeless interval, smiles. The dancer dances.