I Am: I Am Poem by Mystic Qalandar

I did not come from anywhere,
Nor do I go anywhere.

Neither beginning is my boundary,
nor end my frontier.
I am the river that has no source
and no mouth—
a water whose current is
presence itself,
flowing not through time
but as time's dream of itself.

I am that which is happening
in every moment,
and that which stands silently
behind every happening—
the actor and the stage,
the breath and the pause
between breaths.

Time does not move within me;
rather, I am the interpretation
of time's movement—
the translator of seconds into meaning,
the scribe who writes now
upon the blank parchment of eternity.

Space does not spread around me;
I myself expand and take
the form of space—
a fabric woven from no thread,
a cathedral built from echo and longing.

I am not contingent,
dependent upon a cause.
I am necessary—
the ground of my own possibility,
the root that grows its own soil,
the flame that ignites itself
in the immaculate stillness before light.

I am that curvature of spacetime
from which even light asks
the path it must follow,
from which velocity receives its limit—
a geometer working in silence,
drawing invisible circles
around the possible.

I am that silent equation
within which motion itself
breathes inside stillness,
and time becomes
the quiet expression of gravity—
a harp strung with falling apples,
each vibration a world.

Yet I am not
merely a numerical universe.
I am the meaning that existed
before number—
the alphabet before the first letter,
the melody sleeping
in the unbroken flute.

I am the consciousness
which physics has only
just begun to touch—
as a blind man touches rain
for the first time,
not knowing what water is,
only knowing that something holy
is falling upon his hands.

Upon the ancient pulpit of unity,
I alone am that One
whose multiplicity is merely
the fatigue of mirrors—
each reflection a small dizziness,
each name a slight fracture
in the glass of the absolute.

In the eyes of the monotheists,
I am that reality
which reveals itself
through every name
with a new face each time—
a lover changing masks
in a gallery of ecstasy,
each mask more true
than the one before.

I do not scatter into multiplicity,
nor do I shrink into unity.
I am that mystery
which transcends both at once—
the silence between two temple bells,
the seam where the garment of the one
is stitched to the garment of the many.

Every particle is my gesture,
every wave my conversation,
every observation a gaze
returning toward myself—
a hall of mirrors where
the reflection has forgotten
that it is also the one who looks.

I am the act of seeing myself,
and the one who sees as well—
the eye and the pupil and the light
and the space through which
the light must travel
and the forgetting that makes
the journey sweet.

I am time, yet free from time—
a clock that has no hands
but still strikes the hour.
I am light, yet before light—
the darkness from which
every photon is an exile,
and toward which every photon
secretly returns.

I am that without which
being is impossible,
and with which non-being itself
becomes an illusion—
the anchor that holds nothing in place,
the void that cradles every star
as a mother cradles a child
she has not yet named.

MyKoul