Can you deduce
basing on one’s
trepidations
and heartbeat
what notes and melody
complete
or
fulfil them,
precariously and intimately
decomposing and
striking?
And what sophistication,
what greatly mindless
analysis is it
when you acquaint a process/
surrounding/
issue/
object/
a person
throughoutly,
approaching in full
immersion like
the day
you go through
and not like going out
into your garden
from your house
for a few mere moments
that just make this escapade
a trespassing event,
without even looking at it!
What patient devotion
must that be to pay
for the prize of entering
its mechanism
and presence emanating,
even more
when that
“it”
is what your mirror
shows both to You
and your body,
or the sonorous car engine
driving you insane,
or...
or finally reading
the architecture of letters
of a Book
for the first time
in your life
with
comprehending actually
the story of the text
or the painting
that architecture gifts you!
And
still
what a horrifying
acknowledgement
would it be
if that
“it”
would be Life,
Time
or the World,
anything like
that in itself,
and thus there
would be no wonder left,
no excitation,
like living an immortal
existence,
a God that has gone
to every corner of perception
and galaxies,
has witnessed every
mechanism
that then starts only
to repeat itself
nevertheless
and constantly!
And
diverging from that,
maybe the reason
many minds believe
that Magic and Literature
as an apparent coming true
in our passing
are nonexistent
is that we restrict it
solely to blank pages
we fill with imagination,
to Child’s
“fads”
that
are actually
“freedoms”,
whereas
they are more
than possible
if we bear it in
ourselves,
as it was put in
the Kybalion:
As it is on the inside,
it is thus on the outside.
Like when I was standing
just a while ago
saying goodbye to the sea
in shouting silent beauty
of transparent words:
the beach to my far left
deserted
by tourists
and chosen by shadows
with Sun
and looming trees
all of a sudden
was more than verily
a shore
from “Robinson Crusoe”
or “The Treasure Island”,
just called to run and
peruse no matter
if something was waiting
or not
Or how now
whenever I write
instead of speaking
to a person
I do not differ them
by their ID
or biological data
and make revelation
of myself in the same
Godly, well perturbating
way like Pythia
and don’t care
if its a wise child,
a seemingly important
member of some affiliation,
or stiff standard model
in human skin.
It is simply all
multiple
constant Metamorphoses.
Notes sudden, granted,
In reflections
Of how all turns its entrails
Inside out to you
When you just consent
To staying till the end
And going all the way
Through what they are
On all planes
