A man stands strong against the tide. The crash of the waves resound, the heartbeat of the world. Each particle of the water held to those around it by strong attraction. The man sees the truth in the waves. Each particle of water safe and comfortable, supported and surrounded by those of its own kind. Each wave pushing the limits, tasting the air, caressing the ground, touching the man in ecstatic, orgasmic flow. Each particle of water strains for freedom on a bed of its peers. Each particle of water gets a little further and subsides back into the whole.
The man has been standing in the waves for a number of hours. He speaks, "I am searching for the truth, my truth. Please, can you tell me what it is?"
The greatest joy is that the water speaks back. The greatest sorrow that the man cannot hear it.
September 22, 2007
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1 comment:
Powerful. Consider the works of the sufi poets Rumi and Hafez. At moments in your writing, you echo in the tone of a (misplaced) disciple of their work. A whirling dervish perhaps?
a.
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