to write against the grain, the brown coarse paper that makes my writing seems offensive, almost defiling it and never again shall brown coarse paper look and smell the same: a composite of black ink, paper and leather.
and we don't have the words to say, the letters to post, the hope to bring back and still we pretend we care, we do, such that we remind ourselves a past already forgotten, remembering to forget, as if the composite of memories can be conjured up by the imaginations of the present.
Our pens stop writing and the present stops producing the memories.
to not write is to stop the projection and to murder the day, which mornings welcome, and thus the man he could have been never did become. when we place memories at such transient pedestals, we only welcome the disaster and ruin of their beauty and bring forth the horizon, separating us and setting us down on opposite directions. do you remember? what you have written?
and we have obligations to life to be, such that no return is possible. Instead, we march so stubbornly, against life, against death towards the hope over the horizon, and fail to stop to admire the occasional rainbows that differentiate the otherwise gloomy and dark skies. maybe there is a return. maybe. the return to a place no one can imagine. this place is the present that man cannot stop, cannot understand but we can write about. After the memories come the writing of peace, of disaster, of death and the birth of newness and continuity. We can stop writing but we cannot stop reading. Reading memories, reading past joy and nicks of yesterday and making sense of present joy and nicks that fill up the illusionary us that we always fail to mark. We may not always know ourselves. But there is a pastness of us that we can imagine. there is an ancient quality to the grain of the paper, travelling its distance we cannot know, and landing in front of us to make sense out of it. The tree died to make possible the paper. We will die to make possible the future.
In Him I will trust.
and we don't have the words to say, the letters to post, the hope to bring back and still we pretend we care, we do, such that we remind ourselves a past already forgotten, remembering to forget, as if the composite of memories can be conjured up by the imaginations of the present.
Our pens stop writing and the present stops producing the memories.
to not write is to stop the projection and to murder the day, which mornings welcome, and thus the man he could have been never did become. when we place memories at such transient pedestals, we only welcome the disaster and ruin of their beauty and bring forth the horizon, separating us and setting us down on opposite directions. do you remember? what you have written?
and we have obligations to life to be, such that no return is possible. Instead, we march so stubbornly, against life, against death towards the hope over the horizon, and fail to stop to admire the occasional rainbows that differentiate the otherwise gloomy and dark skies. maybe there is a return. maybe. the return to a place no one can imagine. this place is the present that man cannot stop, cannot understand but we can write about. After the memories come the writing of peace, of disaster, of death and the birth of newness and continuity. We can stop writing but we cannot stop reading. Reading memories, reading past joy and nicks of yesterday and making sense of present joy and nicks that fill up the illusionary us that we always fail to mark. We may not always know ourselves. But there is a pastness of us that we can imagine. there is an ancient quality to the grain of the paper, travelling its distance we cannot know, and landing in front of us to make sense out of it. The tree died to make possible the paper. We will die to make possible the future.
In Him I will trust.
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