The horizon pulls one long drought of sunlight into it. And, the world keeps spinning.

Left in the cathedral of the great globe, darkness stands amongst many friends. Points of light that reference, “Sky,” “Passing cars,” “Apartments,” “forest pathway,” bend and distort as the duality of being both particle and wave is measured by the human eye. The brain encodes. The brain is swelling, and reeling, and really real. 

So I stand, backed against the trunk of a tree in the final strand of forest before the suburb begins to continue, I breathe in deep. My nostrils are cleared for just one moment and no longer.

The tree frogs chorus.

I remember the feeling of being naive and I want that.

Rilke’s “The book of hours” has consistently been a favorite of mine. However, last night as I read it, it was grasping, and broken, and clawing. Rilke sits now next to the Tao Te Ching. The Tao says, “The imperfect is completed” and I wonder about his world of words, and the Tao’s world of inference. How they hang in balance.

How I should, at times, be silent.


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