what i wrote the other day i meant, i saw, i know.
the flower opens, its vulnerable and erotic inside connects with the sky, invites the bees, and then it falls, petal for petal.
it never never thinks of not opening because it will die, of staying closed because it may be hurt, it gives its beauty and its scent without the slightest hesitation.
only when you fall,
you will reach the sea.
i meant it.
a flower does not think, it has no ideas, it
is not separate nor would it ever feel alone, it opens as an expression of the universe and nothing is in between.
not like men in T.S. Eliot:
‚Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow.'
no, and also T.S.Eliot though the flower just is and would not know:
‚And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now.'
But the flower will not speak in words , it is process which does not reflect on itself:
unfortunately i speak , again in Eliot's words, my human mind in need of
letting go itself:
‚For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.'
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