Fear,Thomas Aquinas

Fear is such a powerful emotion for humans that when we allow it to take us over,

it drives compassion right out of our hearts.

Thomas Von Aquin

melancholia

Here, in Faro. the heat is considerably less now, a cool breeze turns in from the sea.

the sky is a dull grey. it is a day for mercenaries to doze in their hammocks, a day to wait for Godot maybe or maybe not, who knows.it is a day for melancholia, now, maybe not later, a state of mind you reach when you cannot focus properly, and though you are centered you feel vaguely uneasy, shadows of memories and lost emotions , past joy and forgotten pain rise and go. the best thing is just to let it be, try to enjoy the floating modus and let it pass as all things pass, you are alive,aware,  it is all what counts. it is indeed a day for mercenaries to sleep and to dream and to forget the last day and the next day.

this me is not a mercenary.

an arrow of poison enters, and you are caught unaware in your dreamy motion. though you should pull it out immediately ,should look around for the foe who is hiding in your dark corners.:instead you try to feel it like a broken tooth, your tongue goes there again and again to taste it.

you know what it is about in your case. the simultaneous presence of love and desire. you don't know how to relate to it. well, don't . it is not a contradiction, and your foe is your true friend , part of you, trying to make you conscious for life.

now you are awake, maybe a little bit confused, boats enter the harbour, boats go out leaving a wake in their trail. this is all.

there may be nothing much more. now, there isn't.

melancholia, you travel far, but you always meet yourself. open the window.

travels of a unicorn

travels of a unicorn

he was the last of his kind,

one slow and long drawn

thought, a soft murmur

in the deep forest of night

he bathed in the light

of the moon and the stars,

the birds came to sing,

the elves came to dance

in the mirror of the lake

he saw himself naked and white,

he dipped his horn 

in the coolness of water

then filled with longing

for another of his kind

he walked between trees

to the edge of darkness

at first he lay down and cried

lost in the sun and the day,

nowhere and everywhere

to go in this new world

when he moved, the hunters

came, at the order

of nobles and kings

who wanted his life and his horn

fields and wood were

filled with arrows and traps,

virgins and dummies to bait him,

mazes to swallow his mind.

he remembered his wings

invisible secrets given to him

followed cranes and geese

and on the top of a mountain

he found her, the unicorn

he remembered without

knowing, as if she had been

there as forever, playing

with grass and with stones,

chasing clouds and

turning in the wind,

filled with curiosity

Their horns fell off

when they kissed,

then they walked

down into the valley.

Unrecognized, silent,

polite to strangers,

their wings hidden,

magic in lost songs.

their horns to be found

by nobody but a madman,

their story unforeseeable

and filled with the promiss

of life and death.

unicorns cannot die,

now they were allowed

into the grace of confusion,

not born to bear a horn,

but to wear the sign

of fragility and innocence

and to meet chaos with love.

(Franklin Dove, 1933, ..how to create a 'unicorn', well , there

is never enough popcorn to go for..)

Rumi, rightdoing, wrongdoing

Out  beyond ideas of rightdoing and wrongdoing there is a field.

I'll meet you there.

Rumi