Sister sun bathing us with good things. Your ray sometimes harsh on our skin but nourishing for so much living. Here sprouts a stalk from a crack in the pavement; there a sequoia reaches towards you. Your quiet warmth marks our day while the earth turns its seasons. Thank you.
Clear skies, open seas were the only limit is the ever-receding horizon. The modernist dream was an undiscovered bonanza, and the bonus would be getting there unscathed. As we set sail into the new climate regime, what will our hope be? What happens when the process and end of the bonanza starts falling apart?
In aurora, the horizon obfuscates the sun’s corona. Promise breaks loose one beam at a time. The sky yawns and stretches clouds into the fresh blue. Another obfuscation, each potential exercised, another withheld in reserve. Come be embraced, little ray. Thankfully bathe in the warmth of the possible.
One finds oneself in a mood as its already shifting into the next. Unless one greedily coddles its evanescence and calcify into something might not have been. We contain and retain the fleetingness often to our own peril, mull, and remind ourselves of it: so evanescence turns into addiction.
Emptiness is the whispered cry-wolf while whinging. I remember many a post-office line where customers whinged about the experience with one another. Once in the line’s front, however, they develop amnesia about the experience. Whining my friends is nothing short of boring conversation about something you have no intension to address or change.
Here are my limits. Where can I be taught, and where might I contribute? Stretching myself without giving too much away. My boundaries reserve me for another day, to love and listen better with grace and humility. Moving through an entire day with verecund slowness and quick wit, what a day it would be.
Mobile device micro-attention is the scattergood of our day. The spendthrift divulges on our devices and the emptiness from feeling bankrupted by them. Where has my time and attention gone? When time comes chopped up into minuscule moments, it seems so cheap and easy to give away. When we pay long, sustained focus on something time becomes is so valuable.
Straight-talk is overrated, as Latour suggests. Truth has made us numb to speaking well about something. The anfractuous path reminds us to take things seriously in their own right, for they might teach us something. Truth is just a scheme forced on objects. In truth, things show us nothing, they just mouth what we know to be true.
Inside these coffers lie treasures untold. The murky underground potential we explore, the savings, and layers of meaning unfolding. In the black hole, the quantum entanglement, the soft breeze, they all untangle for us and others unlike us. A tree falls in the forest, and everything around it is placed on notice—given a difference announcement it would have for us.
We carry weighted words not spoken, choked before a verbal explosion. When we remember ourselves, we remind the sentences not verbalized—a reversal inwards, which creates our sense of self, for better or worst. If our vocabulary’s lacking, we might never articulate and sort our own verboseness. Then the taciturn turns on us.