How strange you have to be to remain faithful.
---G. Hill.
In a world of constant flux, sovereign becoming, to think of how many seasons have passed without understanding and not reach out for something familiar-a book, a smile, newspapers-is no mean feat. What is an act of faith? Everything is different, you hear someone say, when viewed in a sacred light.
The last remnants of colours on the trees, high decaying bronze, earth slowing, dark places becoming darker..October is a great turning point in the course of things. In November you will forgive me, Anna. What do you remember? To your astonishment you keep the music with you, close by. You think, in a childish way really, that you can lock some sort of feeling deep in you and draw on it later. Except it doesn't work that way. Nothing's stored and nothing can be stored. And yet you can't accept the flow either. Not to speak of the heart.
Lost my way, lost count, crossed too many thresholds, and didn't cross any. Keeping, not finding. Back, step back, sit down with one knee on the floor, tying your laces outside the school on the hill. How strange, our unfaithful hearts! Most of the books I have remain unread and there were so many flowers whose name I never knew.
---G. Hill.
In a world of constant flux, sovereign becoming, to think of how many seasons have passed without understanding and not reach out for something familiar-a book, a smile, newspapers-is no mean feat. What is an act of faith? Everything is different, you hear someone say, when viewed in a sacred light.
The last remnants of colours on the trees, high decaying bronze, earth slowing, dark places becoming darker..October is a great turning point in the course of things. In November you will forgive me, Anna. What do you remember? To your astonishment you keep the music with you, close by. You think, in a childish way really, that you can lock some sort of feeling deep in you and draw on it later. Except it doesn't work that way. Nothing's stored and nothing can be stored. And yet you can't accept the flow either. Not to speak of the heart.
Lost my way, lost count, crossed too many thresholds, and didn't cross any. Keeping, not finding. Back, step back, sit down with one knee on the floor, tying your laces outside the school on the hill. How strange, our unfaithful hearts! Most of the books I have remain unread and there were so many flowers whose name I never knew.
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