We are walking in a wood. To our left I see paper in the process of dissolving in a pool of water. You are wearing a long, beautiful skirt, that I haven't seen you in before, which occasionally swishes against the clumps of newly fallen leaves. Above, the wind replies. Nearby, to our right, but out of sight, water burbles by, though the ground we walk on is gradientless. Birds chatter music all around, enjoyably consuming lingering summer insects. There are no further away sounds. We have walked like this for years, extensive explorers. Stronger. Interlinked. A twig snaps. You turn to me with a well-known, warm, calm smile. Let's keep going.
I just saw the cord of my blind swinging and was surprised by the strange shapes of its shadow; the differing of an object and its shadow felt like original thinking, until I remembered the cave of an old chap called Plato. Other languages probably have a word for when you felt so mindful but were beaten to the idea by more than 2000 years, when out of the obscured, spins a thought, so graceful, until new light means the shadow disappears.
Comments
Post a Comment