You plot out your dreams, and layer schemes until every
possible point is mapped, webbed, diagrammed into a sunset-reality with
wildflower hills rolling into a swooping valley and a whispering stream, and
the evergreens and weeping willows glow in the aging sunlight and the quaking
aspens have burst into an autumn gold – and then the sky falls, and lightning cracks
like a whip. The storm canter-claps across the heavens and hail hammers into
the country-side like the hoofs of a great and dreadful beast.
But the sun dawns again, and the flattened flowers rise and
bloom, and the grasses hold up their heads and answer Whitman’s question so sagely
and wise that the stream is almost silent, pensive over the stones. Time is
just this, no? Where the raging stream widens and slows, then stumbles into a
slope and races and falls and flies into a waiting pool, where it sits
patiently, and ambles towards the ocean as a drunken bloke, speeding up and
slowing as the earth leads.
I’ve lost track of time. I came into this past month
realizing my intentionality, my process, and knowing the sequence of my life as
surely as a machine. My instructions were already lined up in the processor,
awaiting the machine to stamp each tape deck, nod at the instructions, and
calculate the function. But now what?
Providence, divine, has sewn wings onto my arms while I
sleep, and the wind now carries me aloft, and I’ve no control, little control,
over the breeze that sails my over the trees. A first house, a first girlfriend,
a first time for many responsibilities, and life is overwhelmingly beautiful,
but overwhelming. These are not, I’ve discovered, exclusive in the slightest. I
think they resonate so intricately that they cascade, rebound, and reverberate until
the echoes resound loudly in the ears of time.
No comments:
Post a Comment