Patterns

A river flows rapidly down a hill.

There’s a stone standing alone in the flow. Downstream of the stone there is an eddy, ever changing, yet always somewhat the same. But the eddy is nothing. It is no thing. Nor is the river a thing. Not even the stone. Not even the hill. All just patterns in the ephemeral flow, for now, for a while. But there is no while, no time, simply static patterns in the sand of reality: spacetime. At last, I see it. But there is no I to see. Just another eddy downstream of a stone in the unmoving stream.