(no subject)
As I glance from out the window from my perch at my desk, the wind begins to roar in a throaty voice usually reserved for use across the ocean on a stormy day. In a blur of frenzied motion, the dried out cast-offs from the tree across the street begin to circle and rise like a long forgotten puppet rediscovered by its enthusiastic young owner. They continue their ascent as they engage in what looks to be a kind of ritualistic dance. Each tries to flaunt its strength and fortitude as they jockey for the best position, an office which changes from second to second with the direction of the breeze.
Just as it seems a victor is to be proclaimed, the ferocious growl of energy-laced air intensifies. Clouds roll in like reinforcements unto a battlefield, and from their assigned positions new leaves leap into the fray, destroying the rhythm of the dance and creating something far greater in its place.
They join together now, as one, without reason, without thought, without intent. Their time at the top is limited: they know this, and thus, they do their utmost to ensure that the spectacle which they create is not forgotten. The chaos that is their creation has a logic of its own, in this sense, as disruption becomes a pattern in its own right.
Order through chaos. Beauty by means of destruction.
And then, as quickly as it begins, it is over. There is no warning, no hint of an end. In a single instant, whatever spark it is that invigorates nature’s performers with a spark of life is gone without a trace.
All that remains are the lifeless husks that once executed such remarkable feints and dives, and the world is all the sadder for it. They will eventually decay, as will those who bore witness to their moment of perfection, and none will remain to not their passing, or even their very existence.
Such is the life that we lead.
Just as it seems a victor is to be proclaimed, the ferocious growl of energy-laced air intensifies. Clouds roll in like reinforcements unto a battlefield, and from their assigned positions new leaves leap into the fray, destroying the rhythm of the dance and creating something far greater in its place.
They join together now, as one, without reason, without thought, without intent. Their time at the top is limited: they know this, and thus, they do their utmost to ensure that the spectacle which they create is not forgotten. The chaos that is their creation has a logic of its own, in this sense, as disruption becomes a pattern in its own right.
Order through chaos. Beauty by means of destruction.
And then, as quickly as it begins, it is over. There is no warning, no hint of an end. In a single instant, whatever spark it is that invigorates nature’s performers with a spark of life is gone without a trace.
All that remains are the lifeless husks that once executed such remarkable feints and dives, and the world is all the sadder for it. They will eventually decay, as will those who bore witness to their moment of perfection, and none will remain to not their passing, or even their very existence.
Such is the life that we lead.