When you find yourself at the beginning of a narrative, do you tie with remembrance the sound and the fury of your times past?
I often catch my own little narratives stealing through the dark, creeping, crawling, crossing like cunning fugitives into a plot and to-morrow, the last lines of which have been eternally known and sung and fulfilled, while the first ones of which are perfectly beautiful, like perfect truth, and for that reason are never sought for, nor found by doing so.
I derive as much pleasure when the sun also rises, and you catch her in the field of grain. The world fades into the silence of quiet, a thousand moments of solitude descend upon what reason still remains as you furrow the dark earth - a gentle struggle for dominance and submission, a journey to the center. Awake again as the afternoon cascades down into the eternal cold glitter of the night and you return to thoughts of death and decay - finding the emptiness just as unsatiated.
ReplyDeleteZ?
ReplyDelete