It flashes like specks of gold gleaming in the mud along the river's bank. Like bits of mineral suspended in its waters. It flows in and through us, steady and real as the river itself. Dig in it, splash in it, hold it up to the light. It will still be there. But when we make it out to be something clear, something tangible, concrete, when we claim ownership, attempt to posses infinitely, we sin against the truth itself, and numb ourselves to the possibility of further understanding.
All because we don't want to get our fingers dirty or our clothes wet.