meditations
There are things I'm yet to do, and things that have become routine in my life. I live by words enunciated softly by people I'll never meet, words sprawled across white paper by everyone from the great philosophers of recent times to the misguided and unloved. Breathing in soaks up the words that I see and hear, and when I breathe out I release all that I have learned. Carbon letters, drifting across the impressionable breeze. It floats past my house, past your house, and maybe the wind will bring it back to my house again. Eternal return marks our art as timeless.
Life is not the song, it's the minutes of silence that follow the song. When the opus has ended and the conductor has bowed deeply and dropped his baton, all that remains is an understood silence in which we can reflect on what has been. It's the dead calm after the storm, the flutter after a kiss, the static after a broadcast. The storm and the kiss and the broadcast are all matters of their own beauty, but without an expanse of silence following, how could we possibly meditate and taste the real essence of being?
I recognise my flaws, and I celebrate them. In the times that matter the most, I am carried away by the wind of the words, the zephyrs of passion; and who or what I am hardly matters at all.