Friday, September 24, 2010
How we run, how we grow, how we pray to the gods of our waking dreams, how the screams of our stories permeate the present, make us tremble in our sleep. How we look and touch and begin again the quest for the real, try to hold it in our hands--like sand, warm under our feet but unwieldy. We fill our pockets: ballast for the unbearably insubstantial. Oh. This is how we grow, this is how it goes, I sing the song again that simmers in my heart, nourishes every dream I have warming there. These are the days of complete lucidity--body pure and light, opening itself to mind to spirit--personal trinity turned inside out and spilling, spilling across a finite horizon.