Snail glass
I wrote this little thingy thinking about this story i made up a long time ago when i was 13 that i’m proud to say i never let die.
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| — | Each time they come, the leaves in the Spring, they wear colors brighter than the last cycle of seasons. They wear their colors like masks of impending joy over their tender bodies, weak during a hot sun. As if somehow when their branch shutters and their brothers cascade thy single leave would ascend to the sky. Not to fall and not to remain. Then rest even above the winds and wings of those which my hand does not reach. On higher beyond sun, moon and star. Through many distance of great absence when the wild thistle sees only itself, alone. Would such a journey be a prison of shame to the sad thing? Would the echo of it’s cries confirm the stillness. The agony and drag of time will appear as what, when the leaf rises beyond this great abyss that surrounds us? When it looks down and sees all creation simply resting in thy tomb, thy casket and nothing more. And beyond that unbroken veil, where not any soul could wonder, the leaf by it’s will and desire find the faces of those high and most precious about this and everything that is. To see the collected mind of one and many, to feel the words of their enlightenment. Enlightenment from what pains the heart and corrupts the mind, and knowledge. O, what knowledge is. A ship to carry us into the forever relentless torrents of pain. Nothing more than a servant of it’s own will, a snake eating it’s own tail. The senses of the body would seek to march us through this world and through life then death, though knowledge sees much more than it should. Knowledge would see it’s place aside the leaf. But knowledge could have neither the will or strength to rise so far. As it could never have a world above this corrupt place. From this place even the leaf had came. So, to what reason and purpose do I owe the leaf that could make such a journey? Why must I stay with the other leaves and creatures? Upon it’s twig thy leaf saw no choice or judgment. Until time had set him free for the sky, free for his penance and trails. Free for his chance to give mercy and take in anger. No matter how such a leaf could travel, it’s way is laid before it in it’s mind. The only road to conquer is the one in it’s heart. |
