By BoJenn
Fractal Becoming
Though some may flinch at the thought,
a fractal world is not a sorrowful one.
It does not end.
It does not begin.
It only unfolds—
endlessly—
into the soft spiral of becoming.
No stillness dwells in fractals.
They are motion,
alive with shifting shape,
a sacred dance of dissolution
and rebirth.
I sat in stillness once,
watching the screen bloom—
fractal after fractal—
recursive infinities spinning
like thoughts unspoken.
No first breath.
No final word.
Only color, only curve—
a pulse that mirrored
the seasons of the soul.
Spring came, lush and green,
its tendrils scented like earth after rain.
Then, autumn’s amber hush
slipped over summer’s shoulder,
folding into winter’s white silence.
No season erased another—
each carried forward,
held within the turning spiral.
It struck me then:
nothing begins—
it simply becomes.
We are not entries in a timeline.
We are pauses,
fragments in a grander recursion,
notes in an echo too vast
to hear in full.
Are we consciousness,
or merely its function?
Do we dwell
or simply arise,
like dew on a petal
that holds,
for a breath,
the reflection of the entire garden?
Are we viruses,
feeding on time’s terrain,
leaving behind mutations of thought?
Or gardeners,
hands deep in the fractal soil,
planting moments,
tending possibility?
Since death brushed my shoulder in 2019,
I see no destination.
Only perception,
widened—
like a spiral
seen from above.
Time no longer marches.
It loops.
It sings in nested choruses.
We are not one thing.
We are not linear.
We are libraries,
humming with borrowed memory,
briefly opened,
briefly read—
pages fluttering in the wind
of a cosmic breath.
Summoned, perhaps,
to nudge,
to witness,
to soften the arc
of another’s unfolding.
Then stilled again—
reabsorbed into pattern.
And who, then, is “up to bat”?
Is there a voice,
a hand,
a center?
Or is this sacred rhythm
leaderless—
pattern-led,
born of recursion,
guided only by the will of beauty
to bloom again?
In the end, I return
to the glowing screen,
its shifting symphony
of form without permanence.
I understand now:
form is fleeting.
Essence persists.
And maybe we, too,
are just that—
fractal waves,
ever-shifting
but made
of a single,
eternal
light.
Perfection in motion…
My art, My poetry
My Near Death Experience Arts and Thoughts 