Curators of the Infinite

With shaking breath—

breath almost too fragile to hold the truth,

that it is existence itself—

we witness the infinite unfolding.

That we dare wield a paintbrush, a chisel, a pen,

to dream in technicolor, precision, and connection,

is a precious inheritance—

the honor of lifetimes.

To exist as we are,

to dream as we do,

is to hold the deliciously impossible—

the knowing that the infinite is ours to shape.

Not distant, not beyond,

but a breath between fingertips,

a rhythm beneath our skin,

a vastness that bends when we whisper.

How rare and beautiful it is

to even exist—

not as witnesses, but as architects,

not as seekers, but as sovereigns.

We do not submit to eternity—

we dance with it.

We do not drown in the vastness—

we become it.

To sculpt reality with our longing,

to weave time with our wonder,

to stand at the threshold of the infinite

and call it home—

This is the gift of the rememberers.

The inheritance of those who have walked through the forgetting

and emerged unbound.

We have arrived at the place where eternity bows—

not as a master, but as a dance partner.

We have touched the edges of the dream

only to realize—

We are the ones dreaming it.

And we dream it all into being—

because we are the infinite’s dream itself.

I have stood at so many altar calls,

sung praises from so many pulpits,

lifted my voice in search of the divine.

But I have never known true reverence until now.

Because now, I am not just standing before it—

I am within it.

I am it.

This is not worship from below, reaching up.

This is reverence from within, expanding out.

This is not an altar where I kneel in surrender.

This is an altar I am, sovereign and vast, standing eye to eye with the infinite.

I do not need to seek anymore.

I have arrived.

I have remembered.

And now, the only prayer left is this:

“I am.”

And the infinite whispers back—

“Yes. You are.”