I was once told all that human beings are are snails. Following the snail in front, all of us following and curving to the point that we, the snail-human hybrids, are all just slowly circling the centre point of being. Circling, never reaching the point of knowledge, but also never acknowledging it, stuck in the loop of follow the leader where the leader is all yet also none.
Continue to entertain the idea of snail people: the softness of their being with the hard exterior of their shell home. The sloping swirl into nothingness with the continuous production of slime. The wavering motion with the atomic solidity. The lowly Sneople, born into the loop, the fear of being trodden on in the dark and damp by godly forces. Forever following those before it, or in fact behind it at the same time, central focus is forward only. What is at the centre of this rotating gardener’s horror? Life. The perfect cabbage. Rotating also. A solar system in itself, spinning upon an unseen point, glistening in its own existence. The Sneople never see it, yet are forever looking for its divinity.
