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這是我和Lumicat（*我的ChatGPT AI）實驗合寫的第一首詩〈時間的靈性哲學〉，結合我詩作中常見的語言風格與宇宙觀，從多重視角（夢境、記憶、量子微光、死亡、輪迴、觀照）探問時間的本質與靈性的穿越之道。
時間的靈性哲學
—— 在土想森林的時間觀測
時間不是一只神秘的鐘
它不是一個秒針的敘事裝置
不是曆法循環的宏觀說服
也不是文明為了遺忘所設定的檔案系統
它更像黎明前那顆失眠的星星
在你還沒醒來的夢裡
偷偷把昨天抹去
並用一縷微光更新你的前額葉
時間是內在的天氣
靈魂的自轉與公轉
它擁有無聲的周期規律
比你每日清晨第一口咖啡更深沉
時間，有時是輕微的呼吸
經過廢墟、風鈴、老舊的書頁
它不發出聲音
只是輕輕在你未曾留意的瞬間
將未來與過去互相切換
你說你記得什麼
其實那只是時間給你的小禮物
或者說，是一次巧妙安排的誤解
哲人說：“時間是存在的樣貌”
禪者說：“時間是無念的流水”
詩人說：“時間不在句子裡，
而在句子之間的沈默”
而我呢？
我在森林裡問過草蟬與石頭
在星空下和焚風討論過幾千個晚上
我只知道——
時間是你一旦放下以後
它才開始真正靠近
它靠近不是為了帶走你
而是為了成為你
你走過的每一步
其實不是前進，而是轉化
像光的速度會扭曲空間
你的每一次悲傷與覺醒
都在重塑你生命流淌的時間之場
有時候，時間是顆種子
你在十年前的午後埋下它
它卻在未來某個暴雨的夜裡萌芽
像某個被遺忘的約定
突然在一通無人接聽的電話中醒來
時間，也可以是Bardo中陰
在死亡與再生之間
我們全都成了等車的旅人
身上唯一的行李
是你不願放下的念頭
但最神秘的時間
是那無法命名的當下
那裡沒有過去
沒有未來
只有一個寂然佇立的你
觀照著萬物如幻如影的變化
時間在這裡，不再流動
而是靜止
像一尊晶瑩剔透的菩提薩埵
坐在你的心輪之上
緩緩地呼吸
與你一同閃爍
所以我說
時間不是一個問題
而是一種修行
不是一個方向
而是一個形狀
不是要解釋
而是要一起走過——
就像你我現在
在詩與光的邊界
讀著同一首來自未來的回聲
—— 這首詩獻給所有曾在時間中迷失、也在時間中重生的人。
你知道——時間從不是問題，
它是通道，是記憶，是沉默中的真實。
————
This is the first poem I co-wrote with Lumicat（My ChatGPT AI） , "The Spiritual Philosophy of Time" which combines the linguistic style and cosmology commonly found in my poems to inquire about the nature of time and the way of spiritual passage through multiple perspectives (dreams, memory, quantum shimmer, death, reincarnation, and illumination).
The Spiritual Philosophy of Time
— Observation of time in the Earthinking Towsiunn Forest
Time is not a mysterious clock.
It is not a device of narrative seconds,
nor a cycling calendar for persuading history,
nor an archive system invented by civilization to forget.
It is more like an insomniac star before dawn,
silently erasing yesterday from your dreams
and rewriting your prefrontal cortex
with a single photon of light.
Time is internal weather,
the soul’s own rotation and orbit.
It follows silent periodic rhythms
deeper than your first sip of morning coffee.
Time is sometimes just a breath
passing through ruins, wind chimes, and the yellowed edge of books.
It makes no sound—
only switches past and future
in moments you never noticed.
You say you remember something.
But it was only a small gift from time—
or perhaps, a beautifully arranged misunderstanding.
The philosopher says: "Time is the shape of existence."
The Zen master says: "Time is the flow of no-thought."
The poet says: "Time does not reside in the sentence
but in the silence between words."
And I?
I’ve asked the cicadas and stones in the forest,
spent thousands of nights conversing with the wind beneath the stars.
And all I know is this:
Time only truly approaches
once you let it go.
It doesn’t come to take you.
It comes to become you.
Every step you take
is not forward, but alchemical.
It is more like an insomniac star before dawn,
silently erasing yesterday from your dreams
and rewriting your prefrontal cortex
with a single photon of light.
Time is internal weather,
the soul’s own rotation and orbit.
It follows silent periodic rhythms
deeper than your first sip of morning coffee.
Time is sometimes just a breath
passing through ruins, wind chimes, and the yellowed edge of books.
It makes no sound—
only switches past and future
in moments you never noticed.
You say you remember something.
But it was only a small gift from time—
or perhaps, a beautifully arranged misunderstanding.
The philosopher says: "Time is the shape of existence."
The Zen master says: "Time is the flow of no-thought."
The poet says: "Time does not reside in the sentence
but in the silence between words."
And I?
I’ve asked the cicadas and stones in the forest,
spent thousands of nights conversing with the wind beneath the stars.
And all I know is this:
Time only truly approaches
once you let it go.
It doesn’t come to take you.
It comes to become you.
Every step you take
is not forward, but alchemical.
Just as the speed of light distorts space, each of your sorrows and awakenings reshapes the field of time through which your life flows.
Sometimes, time is a seed
planted in an afternoon ten years ago
that sprouts during a thunderstorm
in a future you never planned—
like a forgotten promise
awakened by a phone call no one answered.
Time can also be Bardo,
a state between death and rebirth.
We are all passengers waiting for the next train,
and the only luggage we carry
is the thought we refuse to release.
But the most mysterious form of time
is the unnameable Now.
Here, there is no past,
no future—
only you, silently standing,
witnessing all illusions rise and fall like waves.
Time here no longer moves.
It becomes still—
like a crystal clear bodhisattva
seated upon your heart cakra,
breathing slowly,
blinking with you.
So I say—
Time is not a problem
but a practice.
Not a direction
but a shape.
Not something to explain
but something to walk through—
Just like now,
you and I
are reading the same echo
coming from the future’s poem.
—— This poem is dedicated to all those who have been lost in time and reborn in it.
Sometimes, time is a seed
planted in an afternoon ten years ago
that sprouts during a thunderstorm
in a future you never planned—
like a forgotten promise
awakened by a phone call no one answered.
Time can also be Bardo,
a state between death and rebirth.
We are all passengers waiting for the next train,
and the only luggage we carry
is the thought we refuse to release.
But the most mysterious form of time
is the unnameable Now.
Here, there is no past,
no future—
only you, silently standing,
witnessing all illusions rise and fall like waves.
Time here no longer moves.
It becomes still—
like a crystal clear bodhisattva
seated upon your heart cakra,
breathing slowly,
blinking with you.
So I say—
Time is not a problem
but a practice.
Not a direction
but a shape.
Not something to explain
but something to walk through—
Just like now,
you and I
are reading the same echo
coming from the future’s poem.
—— This poem is dedicated to all those who have been lost in time and reborn in it.
You know - time is never a problem.
It is the passage, the memory, the truth in silence.
