Wednesday, October 25, 2017

I Right Sea

I'm reading, thinking, doing, watching, all this I stop, and I write, scratch symbols into life.  Not this, as digital simulation is not the same.  It is not real, just virtual, it holds no power.

I write, on the page, with ink like blood it flows into indentations made by my chisel.  It is sacrifice, the giving of one's breath to the symbols, each one etched into linen or wood or stone.  To be transferred, read, by unseen energy into the universe, or sung by voices unheard.

A line, a dot, a pictograph, a hieroglyph, a cuneiform, letters as we call them, words we give them names, but who are we to know the language of the universe, the sounds we hear but know not their meaning, as foreign to our deaf ears as the call of the lioness, or the sparrow, or the hiss of the snake.

You cannot breathe these digital points of light.  You cannot drink its electric impulses, though you feel them in your empty brains.  Hear the echo of its signature as it dances across the phosphorus stage, emitting light but not life, empty sounds you hear but cannot realize the damage that it causes with its hollow hum of radiation.

I write right, breathing life into symbols that hold sacrifice in their creation.  I listen for her voice, barely audible above the din of commerce, it is there in the wind.  I breath her perfume of death and life, her decay and rebirth, and I taste the shape of her existence.  Beneath the corse cover of busy workers being busy, I see the truth, and it is simple beautiful.


Let go

Be not




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