Once upon a time, there was a wind creature who longed to shorten her wings. At each indivisible moment that birthed her existence she would cry, “What if I grow weary? I fear these vast wings may one day grow into a burden.” This crying issued from her lungs at such a high pitch as to make it inaudible to all but a handful of the other creatures living in the realm. I was one such creature. As I gazed into the heavens to marvel at this wonderful wind creature, I grew to feel contemptuous for my own earthbound existence. Lighting struck, then the beginning never happened. Now, as I soar through the sky, I blithely chant the lyrics of the songbird. These lyrics resound with the wind in the sky beyond creatures. There are moments of lyric fluttering in the reflection of a vast ocean. Beyond fluttering, moments foment in the sea just below the flight path of wonderful wind creatures. One within one of such creatures is born to cry, “What if I grow weary?” Yet let us be grateful, for a time is happened upon only once.
Now as we walk through the forest, you and I recall that we’ve known each other all along. We put our hands together and one of us says “emptiness,” then “fullness” is echoed in response. I wonder whether or not we are going to kiss. I would like to, but the soft, sweet, rustling of the forest air seems too precious to risk breaking. You look sad for a moment. Everything within me wrenches apart, and outward contraction rebounds across itself in increasingly helpless frustration. Ripples in the sky tell me that the unhappening is happening. I look back at your face and the sadness seems gone. Still, the momentum of our walk through the forest leaves traces of my rebounded frustration. It happens. We kiss. Where did that come from? And how did we get so high up? Now, as moments of lyric we flutter in the reflection of a vast ocean, strolling through the forest of time.
As George, Mark, Amadeus Rivera I try to talk directly to you. The medium of speech monitors our interaction. Know at your source that my intention is pure, and the incidental armies of my mind will not assault you. Still growing like a sapling, I blossom as a wretch. These words are patchwork for a mess that the Great Unwinding will mend in the end.