But what good are memories tomorrow?
Yesterday is the slimy track behind a snail. It exists, as an indication of life’s passing, not as a description of its character or a painting of its life. Today we have and “now” is the only place we can call our own. Within the stillness there is movement. Where is the insightful eye? Where is the sense that detects the destination of the current's flow that carries us silently into tomorrow?
Here, alone, I am the battlefield; within me there is war. Imperfection and destructive trends are my internal enemies. Death calls for satisfaction; with her web she cloaks my ignorance and with her poison she numbs my insensibilities. Today, I will not neglect the light, nor the space between Chimera and tomorrow…
What great lessons of Solomon are we to eclipse in our apocryphal discovery of new lands and peoples and riches, of sickness and sadness for the spaces within that lay empty of love?
RATINGS BREAKDOWN
POST A COMMENT
Wanna say something? Make yourself heard!
We reserve the right to delete spam, flames, or other nasty stuff.









No comments have been posted yet.