Life is so long, so much of it spent withholding, restrained for my true will.
Broiling, spattering, an endless stream of shearing water into oil. As you would have me, I suppose.
What if the only words or music you could take with you were the ones you could remember? What can you remember?
Sentences and sentiments flash along through my mind – as I work on one task, I'm reminded of a slew of other things I need to get done. Noise. I build things from bottom to top, which calls for momentary sacrifices in focus and quality.
Meditations and enumerating rituals help us resolve towards consistency and conscientiousness. A day for every meaning, anchoring us in the pasteurized sea.
The numbers are stained, the word inflected. I can't leave me.
Have you ever dreamed to go to a quiet place? A small shop, where you can hear the shopkeeper's leather shoes pitter-patter on the carpet from the front of the store, a careful arrangement, lightly lifting and inspecting various collectibles. A truly quiet place, where no one else is there.
This is all I dream for, now. I pray for the undoing of this frail, material condition; the space to be free. Our hope is what will lead us to truth.