I have come to believe that the entire world is an enigma

I have come to believe that the entire world is an enigma, An innocuous enigma, turned into a monster by the mad attempt To interpret it as if it had an underlying truth. But perhaps this attempt to uncover the mystery Is the greatest mirage of our existence, A dream in which we lose ourselves, at every sunrise and sunset. In the flow of consciousness, I drown in questions and reflections, Navigating through the ocean of thoughts, which knows no shores, Every ripple of the water is a metaphor for life's mystery, Where everything that seems solid dissolves into uncertainties. Gazing at the starry sky, every star appears to be a hidden signature, Drawn by a divine hand on the parchment of the night, But these signatures shine only for the brave, Those who dare to see that the truth can be fluid, A serpent of light slipping through the cracks of time. I try to understand the world, but it escapes me, Like a marvel caught in the razor's edge of a dream, In every attempt, I discover more shadows and lights, An eternal dance of what is known and unknown, Where answers become questions, and questions, answers. As I pose questions, I realize that beauty Does not lie in finding a hidden meaning, but in living the mystery Like an endless poem, written on the canvas of space and time, Each verse a moment, each pause, an infinity. I would like to grasp this enigma, to open it like an old book, But its pages are made of dreams and shadows, Each word turns to mist as it passes through my fingers, An unwritten story, full of truths that refuse to be captured. Perhaps the world is more beautiful in its mystery, A labyrinth of heart and mind, where every corner hides a revelation, But this revelation is not meant to be elucidated, But to be lived, felt, in all its complexity. I realize that this enigma, This puzzle that defies clarity, Is like a cosmic music, an endless symphony, In which each note is an endless miracle. In this dance of perceptions, I lose and find myself, Like a traveler on an ethereal road, with no end and no beginning, A world of paradoxes, where truth is only a reflection In the mirror of an internal state of grace and despair. And thus, I accept the mystery as part of my self, A call to infinity, where each step on the unknown path Is a return to what has always been there, An evident secret, hidden in the clarity of each moment. In the flow of consciousness, I know that the truth of the world is not to be discovered, But to be accepted as an eternal dance of light and shadows, A mystical poem written with the ink of infinity, In which every reader becomes a poet, and every poet, a reader.