A childhood page tangles in her eyes. Clutching trees in Snow White’s nightmare run through the forest. The past tangles. We fear fragments of the past and fear liberation from the past.
We need our possessions. Unlike Pico, most of us cannot pack up the self and travel with it, yet, like a carry-on case.
Sometimes, we attach ourselves so strongly that we betray our fear of letting go. Then we leave convulsively, astonishing those who are left. Such violent contradictions.
Sometimes we don’t leave, perplexed. ‘If I have invested too much’ then translates into—‘if I have made the whole world one.’ That would devalue the world, diminish life.
There is world, and there is what one needs—love, family, possessions, satisfaction, oh we call them all by many names.
One might let go somewhat. Attachment/detachment. Abhaya. Freedom from fear of freedom. Along the way, the loss of a great beloved might strike us in the midst of the street. And because one couldn’t bear to know it, it is forgotten in a turn to all things human.
Word-grape. Taste it. Let it release its nuance in your mouth. This could be wine.
If you knew the language of flowers and I gave you a single rose, you would understand it. But if I gave you a cluster of dried aromatic herbs unfamiliar to you, would you find a place for it?
In a linear cosmology, returning is a one-way street, the process finitely measurable between ‘now’ and ‘then,’ the past—the goal—tense and occluded by the future. But when time is marked as nature does, in cycles of rebirth, returning becomes a process oriented both forward and backward, and through the green spiral bursts life. Return, roots, remembrance, rejuvenation, resurgence, resuscitation, renascence, recovery. There are many roads that interpenetrate the world.
Merciless is the creation of something.
Merciless in its creation.
sparrow strident in the winter bush. Sole survivor of the night. I do not stop.