Monday, August 24, 2009

A Speck

A speck of dust can see, floating above and below us, touching us; invisible it drifts, a voice so small we are unable to hear, like a whisper bridging the gap from an immemorial past, somewhere in a vestigial memory we recall how it once was a mountain a great rolling green hill a breathtaking cavern, but now it is nothing to us (yet everything to it), its only memory is of itself: keeping alive with thoughts of its past, no longer remembered by the base thoughts of forgetful man; and so its history murmurs painlessly, (painfully, elegiacally); wandering in the twilight of day of year of era of aeon, harsh solid abrasive; soft malleable permeable; a closet memory, an epic foreclosure of existence mingling furtively with the dying embers of primordial memory, playing tricks on us in the darkness; there, naming without objects, objects without names.
A single speck of dust can see all these things invisible to man.

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