Tuesday, June 30, 2015


Experience is not linear but circuitous. It stakes out territories for memory and coils them back into retrospection. The waves of experience, under the velocity of a moment, jut out. They ebb and flow, leaving behind foamy sediments. Drops of iridescent moisture, moments of being, seep into consciousness and alter perception.
If memory is a wave it mimics the naturalness of propulsion. Yet the wave never advances and retreats by itself. It is superimposed by other waves which blend with it, the flow disperses and attenuates, then intersects and intermingles with the expansive being of the ocean. Certain memories gleam in the penumbra, with phosphorescent limpidity. The subterranean underground life ceaselessly goes about its natural course. But here a mnemonic is irradiated, there an association becomes luminous.
The waves will continue, it seems, regardless. The sun may dapple them with incandescence or the pearly moon set them moving hither and thither. A human life is but a drop in this vastitude of being. The oleaginous waves striate the skin with specks of sand, rasp and abrade it deliciously, cool the heat of feet with sand that is traversed culminating in immersion in water, man's natural element.
They make time circular. The cycle of living and dying branches out, folds back on itself, stretching and contracting , setting forth and refracting carillons of vibration which thrum, throb and pulse with the elasticity of movement. In that very thrill energies are concatenated with the chain of the collective consciousness. Conglomerated memories huddle , underpinned by causality yet aggregated by the laws of capriciousness. A moment in time is but an echo in space, both a warbling aria and a discordant shriek of torment. But in between is the stasis of nothingness, numbness. It is the realm of wordlessness where time is suspended and a moment of convergence, connection ripples out concentrically, spreading outward in circles of expanding circumference before dissolving into the roiling chaos of ostensible stillness.
In the crepuscular remnant of being, death becomes spectral, an apparition. It ceases to stipple life with hope and desultoriness. We await, with dispassion, the ultimate emptiness. But we live on, our drop enriches and fecundates the ocean while living proceeds ,impersonally yet indelibly imprinted by us.

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