Your intimate, your teacher, your guide, your friend (have you ever been failed?) your grounding, your roots till the end, your inextinguishable, your reward for inattention, your endless birthday gift (another shoulderful each year), your security from flightiness, your perpetual punishment, your dissipation, your guide for spilled milk,
The Absolute appears at times to retreat a bit. There are moments, times, A Time, maybe; when we attempt to fly from the Absolute: it can be quite beautiful. Dancing in the full sun, a lilting denial of gravity and the bomb’s debris. If nothing more than a moment’s dance; anarchists (poetically opposed to any law – even gravity), are busy practicing what youth provides. A momentary conviction of freedom from The Absolute.
Youth offended (more frightened) at the sight of the embodied Absolute.
Eventually the dance has a different rhythm.