Somewhere

 somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
 any experience, your eyes have their silence:
 in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
 or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 your slightest look easily will unclose me
 though i have closed myself as fingers,
 you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
 (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

 or if your wish be to close me, i and
 my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
 as when the heart of this flower imagines
 the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
 the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
 compels me with the colour of its countries,
 rendering death and forever with each breathing

 (i do not know what it is about you that closes
 and opens; only something in me understands
 the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
 nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Tightrope

He did not return to his house immediately. After-all, how could he? His elation felt contagious, and his mind was bulging so intensely that he knew it would burst into a chorus of words the moment he was around people. Evening had arrived, so where could he go? Where could he find people? The coffee houses were closing, and the bars were opening their doors. These are the places modern people socialize, and rarely anywhere else. Who could be a more perfect audience, anyways? He asked himself. Who could benefit more from this wisdom? 

Inspiration, determination, and a fervent passion- these are what people would consider the perfect theoretical foundation for a lesson. Yet, why are such things true only by theory and rarely in practice? 

The town had three bar-rooms, and each not only attracted a different type of crowd, but typically a different amount of people. The smallest of the three was ironically the busiest, the median was, as would be expected, the moderately popular, and the largest, which was also the oldest, was relatively empty most nights. He averted his direction and walked dilligently toward The Tightrope, which was a moderately popular bar located near the center of town. Ideal, he thought, a formidible croud without an overwhelming number. 

He felt his heart thumping wildly inside of his chest,a perfectly rhythmic beat to guide and expand his energy. He trotted along like a member of a marching band, one completely absorbed by their music.  Fear, anticipation, and anxiety were overwhelmed by pure undulated excitement. No attention was paid to the sweat bulding upon his palms; his mind was focused on his message, and his body on his destination. 

The sun had just set when The Tightrope's door swung open. Conversations were smooth and moderately toned. People were complacent and moderately sober. The night had just begun, and the joy which accumulates after a days work was reflected by the smiles and jovial attitudes of the workers. This only increased his hope, for how could delight reject delightful news?

Approaching the bar, hesitation began to flee him. His mind descended into equanimity, into comfort, into balance. He positioned himself in the center of the room, and spoke thus, 

"I teach you power. I teach you progression. I teach you truth. I teach you your self!" The words gradually increased in intensity, and by the fourth sentence, the entire bar was quiet and listening. They listened to more than words, for even in their greatness, they are meek, feable, and lonely. They absorbed his emotions. They soaked in his gestures. They observed his meaning. 

"For I come to ask you this, this night, what are you?" His hand raised in the air and snapped down. "You are nothing but wasted potential, but dorment possibility, with nearly all of your ability waiting inside of you to be born. But for what? What is it waiting for? What are you waiting for!" Again, his volume rose, nearing a shout by the last statement. Here, he paused, waiting for the invisible echo of energy to bounce upon the walls and reverberate into the audience. He turned from his original position and began staring into the eyes of the people, each of which was, almost without realizing it, staring at him. 

Here, as if he forced his shout to be reduced to a whisper, his words became dense by their compression. They seemed auspicious and solid like gems, shining from the very excitement which crafted them. 

"You are humans, but you do not have to be. Our species has developed, evolved, far beyond the roots of our ancestory. However, here we sit, allowing our potential to not be used but to be wasted. Wasted!" This final word broke the quietness, and was emphasized due to its contrast. It was like the boom of a canon, or the snap of a whip, almost as if he were attempting to awaken them from a deep slumber.

"You are like an Olympian who has never tried a sport. All of the genes to become superior to their competition, but none of the application. All of the potential to become great, but you remain mediocre. How, you might ask? In your mind, with your body, and through your actions- in each category you have not only followed tradition but became it. You have not only rejected change and growth, but you have embraced its inverse- stagnation." 

At this, he grew very still. 

"You have accepted the role your parents accepted. They have accepted the role their parents accepted. Our generation has become a link on an endless chain. Our minds, the capacity of our minds, has increased dramatically. Our means for doing so have exponentially increased. Our genetic improvement has continued. But a gene is mere potential  ignored. Thus, this improvement is wasted as it remains another dormant possibility which is continually passed from generation to generation, each time eager for an opportunity to thrive."

He raises a hand and points a finger. 

"You are hindering the evolution of your species."

A man, perhaps fifty, began to laugh. He allowed his laughter to grow, turning his humor into mockery.

"Ain't hindren nuthin' tha' don' exist, boy. You's a fool, wastin' our time speakin' 'bou science fikshun whi'll we's gettin' wasted, ai sai's." At this he raised his mug, as if in gesture to his fellow drinking mates. Before the man had a chance to slosh any of the liquid into his mouth, there was a riposte.

"You do not celebrate life, you resent it. Think! I say. Do we celebrate the lives of animals, or do we breed them for slaughter? Do we enjoy our lives or do we seek refuge in drink? Are we trying to live or are we trying to escape? It is time to live, and to celebrate life."

May My Heart Always Be Open

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

by Edward Estlin Cummings

Treasure Chest

The two stare at one another. His mind becomes silent, attempting to memorize the image of the moment and experience. They remain still for several moments, as if the two are attempting to search the other's soul and understand its infinite depths. It chirps, and the interruption of silence does not disturb him- something inside of him knew it would happen; something inside of him understood what would happen next.

The bird outstrecthes its majestic wings and soars into the noble air as if a gust of wind swept it from its feet. He watches as its muave wings become smaller and smaller like a pebble in the expansive skyscape. Here, he has found a treasure chest. The contents enlighten his intellect with secret wealth, a wealth he desires to share with humanity. Slowly, he gazes in the direction of the bird as it soars off and into the supertemporal.

The same gust which occupies the bird on its adventure provides him with the rich scent of juniper. He could practically taste its richness.

 He stands from his spot of solitude. 

He reflects upon his visit. The duration of his stay matters not. What matters is the treasure attained; what matters are these lifetimes of wisdom which seem to have impregnated his mind like the seed of a juniper, spreading its roots to grow explosively in his mind- a mind sustained by the water of sunlight and the fruit of knowledge. 

He glances in the direction of his home, a wayward and nostalgic glimpse against the wind. His eyes view the horizon of the town. His mind views the structure of humanity like the architecture of a building- a foundation of self-preservation sketched neatly below the frameworks of business enwrapped with emotion and covered haphazardly with a rooftop of religion.

"I am no longer a man." He speaks aloud, to an invisible audience.

The strongest part of something is its smallest most individual fragments. Society can never be stronger than the individuals which create it. Similarly, our bodies are not nearly as strong as the atoms which combine to create it. With time, our bodies will decompose. Yet, there are fragments of this body which will remain, and, if you gaze near enough, parts which will last for an eternity. Yet, he was only beginning to come to this conclusion. He was only at the initital stages of breaking apart from his body- from man. Society will be destroyed, its countries will end, and its cultures will be lost in an oblivion of fragmentation- yet, individuals will always survive, somehow, somewhere. 

What is a man? He asked himself. A creature who is given life from another man and another woman. Yet, they have not been on this earth for very long, at least in this form. He was taught that we had transformed from various epochs of hominids, and he had come to attribute modernity with what we call man. Yet, what happens when an embryo begins to develop and transform away from man? Now, it must be true that every living human does this to an extent; it is these transformations that create uniqueness. Still, what if one were to vary far more than what is traditional?

Is a fox that different from a dog?  He asks himself. Yes, in certain respects, for even if they have similarities, they retain differences in regards to personalities, dietary preference, appearance, mating styles, and intellect. Yes, he thought, a fox is still an animal, a mammal, even a canine, but it is not a dog. I am an animal, a mammal, even a hominid, but I am no man.

"I am no  longer man." He says to an invisible audience.

Freedom and Sunlight

Thoughts and things running through

My head; some old, some new,

Some silly, some not, but one

Is an image of you.

The image dances, yet haunts me:

Roots planted deep in the soil, a tree

Growing, growing, growing. The seed

Bursts from the soil; forever it’s free.

“Freedom, freedom, freedom at last!

Oppression and pain are things of the past,

For now I’ve grown beyond the grasp of my roots.”

I glance down at lengthy shadows cast-

“My grass is greener than the grass on the other side;

My grass is greener than grass on any side.

My grass grows free, next to a tree, in the

Sunlight of you”

Solitude

His walk had brought him solitude. In this solitude, he found peace. He sat upon a boulder, resting his feet and observing his surroundings. The pines and the junipers have sprouted from the ground and looked to be stretching toward the exiled planets and stars invisible in the daytime sky. He gazes at the trees which appear stationary to the human eye. He realizes that these life forms grow into something larger, wiser, and more powerful each day. The wild brush enters the focus of his vision, exploding rapidly throughout the floor beneath the trees, twigs and pinecones. A gentle breeze enhances its radiant lifeforce as it shimmers, powerfully. 

A soul soars nearby; his stillness provides this soul with the necessary feelings of safety. Sitting here he realizes this creature too has a soul. It is not empty and devoid of feelings, it is as full of life and passion as any human. He marvels at this realization, thinking of it as a soul rather than a beast or a natural machine. The mountain is quiet, mute compared to the society in which he constantly dwindles his life away. The subtle sounds which are  disregarded in the city are obvious here. His mind becomes aware of a bird landing upon the branches of a nearby tree, the sound creating a mental image of talons grasping and digging into bark. The sensitivity of his mind and body while immersed in wilderness astonishes him. 

There is a clarity here, he thinks. 

He stares at this soul upon its native perch and compares it to a man standing upon a sidewalk. People have always implied that they were better than these animals, but are they?

Everything changes, nothing is beyond the next, there is merely adaptation- adaptation and success.

He is suddenly awakened. A waterfall of sound falls from the droplet of the bird. He feels it as it flows over his body, realizing not an ounce of this song belongs to him. The bird's song belongs only to the bird. Yet, he is encovered.

Sunlight washes over his skin. He thinks of it as soundwaves vibrating across his body. His fingertips reach for the moss upon a boulder like it's growing beneath the freeflow of a waterfall. It is softer than any fabric he has stroked, naturally, wildly. It thrives from the nutrients of this sunlight, beneath the waterfall of this wild song; it is the exemplification of success.

He ceases speaking and drops his head to the ground shaking it slightly. He appears to be chastizing a young child, or disappointed by the behavior of a lover. This only passes for a moment, then he lifts his head taking a deep breath. He gazes at the ocean of eyes in front of him as if nothing had happened. Where enlies his disappointment? Thus, he spoke once again.

Now, at this point it is important for you all to realize a series of things. Instants inside of our existence only have meaning because we ascribe meaning to them. This is true for our lives, for our interpretation of artwork, and for our understanding of one another. This experience may seem subtle to you, and rightfully so, for you have probably never experienced anything like this until now. Still, I implore you to attempt to understand. Why was the realization that an animal has a soul so breath-taking? Or that specific intelligence or society or even evolution does not mean one thing is better or further along than another, but that it is merely adapting to its current environment? Why did this song strike him like a bell in a temple where monks have remained for hours in silent meditation? 

There are other, more subtle realizations which occured to him, such as why he thought of the planets as exiled, or why the growth of the tree meant so much to him. I will not take the role of a pastor or a teacher and interpret these things for you. Even observations become less powerful when pointed out rather than self-realized. Yet, you have as much to gain from this experience as him.

A gentle smile blossoms upon his face, altering his demeaner and sending a sense of equanimity over the crowd. A rare and passionate smile from an individual is a powerful thing, he thinks to himself. With this, he waves his hand nonchalantly, as if brushing aside the distraction from the minds of his audience. Then, and only then, does he begin to speak once again.