Turbulence, the synapses keep firing, twists and turns (a bit embarrassing).
What inside keeps it all going? memories? rituals? codifying dreams? efforts? (oh my God the failures), the faint loss? the unattained? the firing nerves…maybe that is all, just firing nerves.
The haptic synapses, oh how embarrassing, do they mature? Do synapses wrap up the Divine… this matter?
Melted ice and dried thorns, bits of petals, leaves, still attached; crumbles of things. Its’ Spring, or, what’s left over from Winter. Ice and thorns and turbulence, now warmed. Some day this will lift up again, as if the past is now just sleeping.
Caught in the backwaters, what beauty has sustained is not to be noticed, but that beauty is still there, right?
The river does keep flowing wetness, damp alive black soil wetness that thickets will carry forth…upward… as green, green, green. Here (where winter browns and grays all life) those little shoots of green green green… matter. As if matter was The Divine.
As to matter, or “what matters most”; isn’t that Realm… thicker, richer, fogs denser, cold deeper, warmth more enduring, colors more revealing, under a brighter sun? A vibrancy of stories?
Stories, it is always best (for power) to know the other man’s sins, or better yet failures. Reminiscence of old times (among friends, in front of the young) does often bring forth an event which shadows so much. Some path through the turbulent synapses: a hidden story of pointed embarrassment.
And yet we all begin embarrassed.
And so we start all over again, the green, green, green (or maybe a different color) to variations along the same path, firing off similar (but oh so personal… stories); lost in the tragedy laughing, or surprised in the comedy crying.
It is common to reduce the Divinity to concepts best reserved for choosing bathroom towels, to wrap about, to cover what matters, to know…embarrassment.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 