I am feeling fragile and frail. A thousand years old. A thousand ways to go. Temporary, transient, hesitant. A long way into life. Guided by the gods? Is that the way the wind blows? Who knows? I don’t know. No one knows. Nothing lasts. At the end of the day, where will we be?
Closer to transition and invisibility. How long? Who can say? But, today is golden, ripe for the taking. A bright sun polished landscape. The flavor of peaches. The impossibly blue sky impossibly far away. Clouds hover. Far away thoughts are thinking of singing. The forest is alive. Pollen, the forest of tomorrow, is everywhere. The coral seas are full of polyps. The goats are rubbing their horns against the trees and trying to fly. The garden is waking up. The azaleas are in full bloom. The moon is going to meet the sun tonight. Ice is still possible. Everyone is exaggerating. Everyone is seeking to expand. Everyone manifesting expectation of creation.
Art happens all the time but it is alive only in the moment of its creation. Afterwards it is static, unmoving, unchanging, stuck in its first moment until it is eventually unwound by time. Is it created for right now, only for today? For tomorrow? Forever? For posterity? For history? The expression of an age is never really understood in another time. Is art relevant only in this time line and this life time?
No, a leaf does not last long. Even if it becomes a memory of itself the memory only lasts one lifetime. The best it can become is a story, but even a legend is living beyond reality and is only a name. We come and go and I am feeling fragile and frail.