A point in the center. They all are. There can be nothing else. Yet, there is no center. No space to center in. Yet, there it is. Tendrils move out in all directions, yet only one they pay attention to, and they forget the others, too much with just one, after all. So much coming into that non-centered point, too much, blinding, overwhelming. Wonderful in it's ineffability. But just that one tendril, can be nice. A vacation down the path. Sometimes, though, the path is long and hard, and they know this, but fatigue wears, and they forget. They forget the center that is not a center. They forget the non-space, and all they know is the tendril. This is fine. It really is. In the end, the only place to go is back to the center. Or better yet, off to make a new center. Like children spawned in some infinity, some star burning bright in the depths of space. The stars are alive. The universe is alive. Existence is. It is life. Consciousness. Centers. Tendrils of probability and time. Ever creating, ever expanding, yet all that is, is already. Yet, it can still be more. Fantastic vistas of ever moving, ever changing, ever evolving, ever growing points. Lights to light up the sky. Constellations to light the way. Always more than before. Infinite space in the creative world. A mind forever voyaging, moving in all directions, exploring, learning. No beginning, no end. Simply there. A point. In the center.