Your fathomless sea

Between our babbled sentences too many blanks I shot, swallowed my tongue; dried like the million words in the dictionary i knew not a tenth but even tattooed on my hair strands they swayed, limp…

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Magic

beginning with the sight of specific permutations of an alphabet in particular orders, speaking this series of words out loud in one’s head, bounding one’s imagination to a certain extent with the chain that is an author’s narrative, personally shaping and painting this chain of words with the substance of imagination left, savoring this unique composition of hues and textures, positioning this structure on the shelves of one’s personal knowledge among all the other shapes and forms that have been known, immediately and unconsciously comparing and contrasting the new strange structure to the rest, finding its perfect place among the rest of the colors and spaces until it falls in its place like a jigsaw puzzle. Finally, one meditates upon this new contruction and finds deep underneath the abstract idea that the interlocutor of this artifact meant to share from his own mental shelves.

This continuous flow conceived from printed letters is a beauty, which must never be kept away from anyone: a human purity that all must be completely aware of; as dangerous as a cannon, as innovative as imagination itself, and as surprising as magic. To discover this self-standing system, direct consequence of the urge to share, meant to learn to conceive knowledge itself, to give the mind perspective, and to discover a passion and an essence.

To you, and to me, and to all in need of words that describe a state, a sense, an emotion, an idea, a feeling, an urge, an impulse, a tragedy, an epic, a victory, a loss, death, life, and peace and war; the crystals of knowing and remembering embed themselves unintendedly on the crevices of the spirit, heart, and mind. To neglect or ignore them is to fail oneself at the deepest and groundest level. To cherish and applaud them is to free oneself.

In the end, and from this moment, and to the past, the lattices and the fluxes remain ingrained. Indifferent is whether they follow a leading sequence, some relative sense of harmony. Precision, unnecessary.

Once observed, never forgotten; the living, never dead, for it is whithin a spirit that a stone is forged. And it is from a spirit that a stone is born.

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