The words scratched her throat as if they had their own mass, their own prickly edges. The way they stuck to him, the way their thorns pricked blood, the way he shook his head as if he was trying to loose them, proved that, in fact, they did.
It didn’t matter what she said. It didn’t truly matter how she said it. The mere fact that she spoke at all in the middle of this wind tunnel of his rage was enough.
He, of course, was the one screaming. He followed her down the street as she walked briskly, past the windows of the French bakery, past the windows of the specialty yarn shop, past the sun-saturated square. His shirt, thin as the surrounding tourists’s reasons for staring, hung low over his paint-spotted pants and fluttered in his haste.
There are many things that deserve words and thought and prayer.
It is not something that comes in the night and whispers its arrival.
It is something made out of clay. A miniature Adam. A tiny model.
The thing you will use to cast replications of your great sculpture.
The journey of a self is like the journey of a priest. In their youth
they yearn for the depth and seriousness of their goal, believing
I am deep enough to understand the four letter word hope
But a wealth of understanding only highlights the lack.
This light to dark is archetypal. It is as deep as dual nature.
Mostly what we cannot know is the momentum of things.
What is the electrical pulse inside that keeps time with the universe?
The task of seeking is actually much simpler.
It is a task of initiation.
It is the doing of the thing.