Like crowded beauties, the words come falling, marching, crawling out of me. They push each other aside with elbows made of vowels and consonants; their hearts are in their middles, between their sounds, and those words of single letters – they are so pure, so simple and so prime.

The purpose and meaning of clocks and money, and gasoline and insurance – all these traps of world and life – they are all annihilated in this feast of understanding – this orgy of cognition. Where are the skies? Where are the animals and people? Where is the purpose under heaven at once sung about and pursued by millions and billions? I have them all on the tip of my tongue, and beneath the curves at the ends of my fingers. Where are the letters sent to mothers, the telegrams arriving from the sea? Where are the whispers in the night that convince a million mothers-to-be that its all right – that ‘we will make it somehow’, that the time is right for families to bloom and ripen into broods?

Where are my memories? Where are those visions I have lost – those dreams that I have dreamt which flashed away during eclipses of consciousness between sleep and non-sleep – between awake and non-awake?

I witnessed an eclipse last night and took a picture; when the picture had developed, I saw nothing but an eye up in the sky, and that was not the eye of god – it was the eye of I – of myself and no other, though now it becomes yours, as I share it with you. For that is the nature of story-telling: to take that which is mine, and to give willingly and without fear – to make one experience into two – yours and mine, and when there is more than one experience, it does become a phenomenon, a happening – an event or would you even whisper – advent?

We discover what my heart is filled with when I let the truth bleed down onto strange pages, filled with – not words – but lives – little lives that hush each other, vying for their opportunity to be admired, to be skimmed over briefly by sets of eyes in heads on necks on bodies that have grown up slowly over time, into beings that may comprehend their meaning. For what are words but ideas given form? And are we not the same? Are words not unlike us? We create them in the image of our thoughts – we give them the attributes of life – they grow and change over time, and eventually, all words must die. Oh yes – they are alive, and we must give them the respect that they deserve, granting them attention when they are young, nurturing them into their prime and maturity, so that when they do go to their death-books, they have each lived full and beautiful lives, full of adventure and passion. And may they each leave little words behind, that will grow and become sacred in their own rite – the offspring of ideas which came before Them, transmuting the world from a place of strangers – to a place that does not know the meaning of that word, into a place that could not be imagined – or possible – without Them.


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