We are running out of things to say, as is usual. At some point we must leave this realm of consideration
We will go back to our lives, make our coffee, our tea. Eat food, watch films. Talk to people, walk down the streets, pass by plants that are manicured, growing as weeds in sidewalk cracks, sitting in pots in the sun, harvested and sold in grocery cases. We may remember the time we read this words or not. We will experience problems in our lives and work to find solutions. We will be happy sometimes and then unhappy. We will forget our edges, and then, we will remember to wee our snarly parts. We will read, we will fight for our own small injustices, we will have dinner, go dancing, stay at home. We will encounter danger and the like. meet lovely people, meet annoying people, meet people who initially are lovely and then do great damage to our hearts, meet idiots that surprise us with their capacities.
We will always be failing and succeeding at something
** We have our rituals, and we will fall into them over and over. How we become ourselves everyday, moving through our mazes. A ritual is never new, we are rarely new. If we were licked by a flame it would not consume us immediately. It would bend around our curves, it would deepen the warps on our body already present, already sympathetic. Free will? Toss a log into a stream and watch how the stream bed changes over time.
If we commit the same ritual with different words or clothing or whathaveyou, it still yields the same results. Emperor’s new clothing and all.
There are words that do things, but my best guess that it only looks like that, a glaring symptom that appears it needs to be treated when a larger disease is at play.
The time we take to make them, the time we take to think them.