What was once true was true.
A mere molecule isolated in its chamber, its journey traced electronically, like a sparrow flying in and out of a high window; a speck of dust, a spilled drop of ink that spreads out like a small continent on the blank paper. To exist is no small feat; existence is separated from nothingness by a vast gulf, even as it carries that nothingness with it- just as the first note of the music carries with it the silence from which it came.
The unknowing ant is not a molecule, is not the spilled ink, although its journey resembles that of its mechanical cousins. To live..that is something!
The human being, with all its frailties, a mere speck of dust in God's eye, a small world in itself, like the ink blot. But to be human..what memories! To be human is not simply to live.
And what of you, my oldest of friends. Not human the way a cloud's a cloud but, still, with a sparrow-heart; but you, this person in this specific place, this particular time. I write your name on a blank piece of paper.
(After Ghazali)
~~
There are still signs of hope in the Republic. John Berger's books were freely available...At the airport three flights came in at once. All were from the Gulf: Kuwait, Jeddah and somewhere else. the men who emerged from the plane were invariably old, ragged, and bearded. As they emerged, stumbling into the light, each one was greeted by loved ones rushing towards them. There is something old here.
The wives, heads covered (mostly), fat and rosy cheeked with elation; the children seven or eight years old, dressed up like dolls with rouge and bright lipstick. And they all would cross the barrier and rush to their loved one, showering them with petals or placing garlands around their necks. The security guard feigned irritation, ran towards them with his semi-automatic at his side, and ordered them to disperse (but with no conviction in his heart). There are old human instincts at work here.
~
At dusk S stands out on the balcony and looks out for her daughter. "She should be here by now," she murmurs to herself, again and again. A mother's heart...
A mere molecule isolated in its chamber, its journey traced electronically, like a sparrow flying in and out of a high window; a speck of dust, a spilled drop of ink that spreads out like a small continent on the blank paper. To exist is no small feat; existence is separated from nothingness by a vast gulf, even as it carries that nothingness with it- just as the first note of the music carries with it the silence from which it came.
The unknowing ant is not a molecule, is not the spilled ink, although its journey resembles that of its mechanical cousins. To live..that is something!
The human being, with all its frailties, a mere speck of dust in God's eye, a small world in itself, like the ink blot. But to be human..what memories! To be human is not simply to live.
And what of you, my oldest of friends. Not human the way a cloud's a cloud but, still, with a sparrow-heart; but you, this person in this specific place, this particular time. I write your name on a blank piece of paper.
(After Ghazali)
~~
There are still signs of hope in the Republic. John Berger's books were freely available...At the airport three flights came in at once. All were from the Gulf: Kuwait, Jeddah and somewhere else. the men who emerged from the plane were invariably old, ragged, and bearded. As they emerged, stumbling into the light, each one was greeted by loved ones rushing towards them. There is something old here.
The wives, heads covered (mostly), fat and rosy cheeked with elation; the children seven or eight years old, dressed up like dolls with rouge and bright lipstick. And they all would cross the barrier and rush to their loved one, showering them with petals or placing garlands around their necks. The security guard feigned irritation, ran towards them with his semi-automatic at his side, and ordered them to disperse (but with no conviction in his heart). There are old human instincts at work here.
~
At dusk S stands out on the balcony and looks out for her daughter. "She should be here by now," she murmurs to herself, again and again. A mother's heart...
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