cover of book, stray birds R.Tagore (1916)
WEEK EIGHT. conversation by clair and charlie
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as we grow in years we get so clever... so 'in the know', and in the same moments, (and in the same amounts) we get deeper and deeper and much more lost and more lost. perfect balance. natures little balancing act.
The wistful face that haunts is the expression of knowing we etch upon the skin of memory. We find new eyes to shape reality through experience, but look back to reread the past like a favourite book or game, finding new levels, deeper meanings that reward knowledge with more to understand. Perhaps the face is but a mirror to my own searching, looking back at me ahead, as though two figures in a tug-of-war of definition. At least the rain at night replenishes, even as it destroys. Rivers always reach for the sea.
... Like a world bigger than me.
Why does she choose to haunt me? Why does the rain and night possess me? Why am I me at all.
In such transience, I recall the magic of a human quality to create the shape of things, like colours in a palette of possibility. And of all the dark and light mixed on canvas: her face, rain, a night, expose me as nothing more than images and thoughts in the sensation of life.
My dreams haunt her face. Her night haunts my rain.
I ache always for the touch of soft skin or water to remind me of me.
How intoxicating it is to be haunted, or a heart carried by an ant.
the rain haunts the night. the night haunts its' sky.
ants love carrying hearts. they are their perfect size.
(and full of delicious strawberries and cream .)). hee hee
thanks charlie poet. X