When The Sphinx Thinks Of Herself

Thousands of years they've imagined me. I am their impenetrable enigma, wrapped up in desert sands. I am a gaze which sees through aeons, and seems to understand that time means nothing. It is only slow decay, the endless erosion of form and texture and reconfiguration.

They look at me and believe I am in possession of a wisdom that could bring it all to an end. Or a beginning.

And they could be right.

I don't deny them their delusion. If it were me down there in the sand, my feet sinking in that ever slipping surface, getting nowhere, I would do the same. Decide there was a realm beyond all this, a place where knowledge is not required. It was attained a long time ago. Absorbed like the warmth of the sun.

But the truth is I look in many directions. My gaze falls everywhere, and nowhere. Though when it falls upon myself, I am reminded of a curious joy, coloured and fragmented and many sided.

Wise to nothing, save life itself. And time.