8.9.09 - Coffeehouse
This was meant to be entered quite a while ago...
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Summer is marching right on past, and I am extremely glad for it. This morning, I awoke to sweat and warmth that tempted me to throw aside my beloved covers in contempt. It reminded me, harshly, that while on the move, summer is still present - still among us. Though it is marching, there are still days in which it simply loafs about.
Today, it feels, is one of those days. And yet, Autumn is discernibly on its heels.
I have missed Autumn - the beautiful array of life on the verge of drastic change. Those moments of clarity the colors of the Autumn brings - brilliant rainbowed reminders that nothing is permanently alive, permanently in growth. That soon relief from the summer heat and upheaval from the summer drag in our step will come.
Autumn is the sing that no system exists without metamorphosis, without change, without refreshment. Autumn is also the reminder that death is not the end of this cycle, merely a part.
Enough about the seasons. I have been feeling the need to write coming more and more often. As if this stretch of barren land is due for the rain. I have also felt the spirit of music, of the wind and the storm of artistic flurry drawing closer than before. I wonder what that might imply about the coming days, about the direction we will go from here...
I feel very nomadic. As if some old spirit of the Americans were in me, or the great tribes of the East, or the Bushmen of the African desert. As if something not of my culture, society, heritage were calling from within me to cling to the older ways. To shed this materialism I feel so indoctrinated with. As if some spirit from the past had been born inside of me, or some ghost inhabits these arms, these eyes, these feet.
I'm not quite sure about the full cycle of reincarnation and all of its implications. But, often, I remind myself of those from before. Perhaps, it is a universal, non-temporal similarity between beings of a similar history, beings made of one type. Perhaps, we should all feel this way, as if history were within our own breasts - not without. Perhaps, we would all know it to be true if we would only pay better attention to the reality of the world we live in.
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Summer is marching right on past, and I am extremely glad for it. This morning, I awoke to sweat and warmth that tempted me to throw aside my beloved covers in contempt. It reminded me, harshly, that while on the move, summer is still present - still among us. Though it is marching, there are still days in which it simply loafs about.
Today, it feels, is one of those days. And yet, Autumn is discernibly on its heels.
I have missed Autumn - the beautiful array of life on the verge of drastic change. Those moments of clarity the colors of the Autumn brings - brilliant rainbowed reminders that nothing is permanently alive, permanently in growth. That soon relief from the summer heat and upheaval from the summer drag in our step will come.
Autumn is the sing that no system exists without metamorphosis, without change, without refreshment. Autumn is also the reminder that death is not the end of this cycle, merely a part.
Enough about the seasons. I have been feeling the need to write coming more and more often. As if this stretch of barren land is due for the rain. I have also felt the spirit of music, of the wind and the storm of artistic flurry drawing closer than before. I wonder what that might imply about the coming days, about the direction we will go from here...
I feel very nomadic. As if some old spirit of the Americans were in me, or the great tribes of the East, or the Bushmen of the African desert. As if something not of my culture, society, heritage were calling from within me to cling to the older ways. To shed this materialism I feel so indoctrinated with. As if some spirit from the past had been born inside of me, or some ghost inhabits these arms, these eyes, these feet.
I'm not quite sure about the full cycle of reincarnation and all of its implications. But, often, I remind myself of those from before. Perhaps, it is a universal, non-temporal similarity between beings of a similar history, beings made of one type. Perhaps, we should all feel this way, as if history were within our own breasts - not without. Perhaps, we would all know it to be true if we would only pay better attention to the reality of the world we live in.
1 Thought(s):
I think people forget the history all the time. It's sad how people probably won't know what "great tribes of the East" you could possibly mean.
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