So goes the stillness as it leaves, the tender touch of fingers, the static truth of teeth. Flesh and bone only linger so long, easing their way back into the clouds of elements. There is an itch, there was a whisper, there is this moment where there is a tuner and a filter. We see, we say, we slumber upon a roiling bed of quanta. We wake, old and new, desperately focused, beautifully oblivious.
All those crystal palaces, all those verdant fields. The dreams that bind and flay us, so vivid beneath the skin of the world. We wander, all song and story. Never aware that we are telling our part of the only story as our bodies build and boil. Vapors trails and salty tears, animal aspects and the longing for the tides. To be aware is to be lost to history-- not the camera or the picture. Only the film and the light.
We are only of this world. We belong to the forests and the plains, to the depths of the ocean and to the mountain tops frozen in the stratosphere. We are the sunlight sifting through the sky and the steam cleaving to the clouds. Long ago, we tricked ourselves into stories of meat and mind, losing any hope of holding onto our souls. Instead we clung to the abattoir of gods and philosophies, the ritual of the experiment and the autopsy. We long for the wings of angels, and a better life that will replace our own. We fall, not as angels might , but as even stars must. The whole world is turns and tides, devouring itself in fire and deluge, returning again and again to the well worn strictures of this brand new day. We awake adrift in mysteries and certainties, treading water, trailing dust.