7 Jul 2008


The sky is both at once close and far. How the clouds do not care about any of the passers by, floating by like oblivious dreams. Though, even as I know this, I am still a bit lighter when I look up, and out at the centerless blue — such a color I have never seen a faithful reproduction of, not by any human hand or eye. Even the photographs miss something of the magic, as if the mystery had been filtered out when the image came through the lens. We are none of us tall enough to understand, I think, what is above. We shuffle around, earthly specimens, as angels soar through the yonder. It is the source of all myth. Outside the cycle of pain and stupidity, celestial wonders routinely work their miracles, and life goes on indebted to the light that pours down. Which we never notice, because there is so much of the miraculous at hand.

And my hands have slipped into my pockets for some reason. Once I read that this was an indication that someone is hiding something. Perhaps I am hiding something from myself? I feel a coin in my pocket and pull it out; I bring it before my face, and sense a great mystery to what I hold my hand. Currency: this is what is current, this is carried along the current of buying and selling to who knows where. It is a thing, a created thing, small and self-contained, but useless without an elaborate context around it. It is a marker of an entire world. It shares a value of “thingness” with all other creations, great or small — the commonality almost lets one forget the multiplicity, and believe in the One from which all forms have come. But what value, this thinking? That (realization) and the quarter I stare at will buy me a gumball, if that.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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