A thought begins as needle-point

stabbed in the dark,

then stretches as infinity,

out-and-out beyond the singularity to

a line becoming latticework,

becoming cathedral,

ideology’s vaulted spine,

systems of knowledge,

the world as canonical,

a three-dimensional vision.

 

Realities become made from this:

blueprints, manifolds, models,

towers of Babel pointing to the floodlit sky,

the recursive, evolving architecture from

what-we-believe-shapes-what-is,

pulled across time to create place.

 

But the fourth dimension?

Not time, no, not space as we know it,

something stranger:

the unnerving hyperspace where thought

folds back to witness itself thinking,

where system meets its own dark reflection

and fractures into questioning from

the particles of primordial light.

 

This is doubt as dimension,

the trembling wave between certainty and collapse,

where all constructed and imagined worlds hover,

luminous and hollow,

folding and unfolding,

suspended by the act of their own possible undoing.

 

25/12/2025