A dance qualified by fools, confirmed by scientific, intelligent creatures, by the majority sometimes, or by ‘common sense’. Common of the blinded, babbling, groping creature. Acclaimed by all except the silent fool, whose mantra holds only the words ‘ I know nothing,’ they dance with each other.
Yet they dance, the dancers dance.
Dance you on sweet children, distinguished dancers of a thickened heavy earth. Dance you on, though you die upon the morow, your dying from the day that held your birth. Bounce upon the strings that pull you here and too and sometimes slip you fro. For the dance you dance, it is not yours, despite the pomp and charade of you who thinks they know. The movement is not true, without the strings you cannot do, and so the illusion it simply grows and grows and grows.
We as creatures of habit adopt the verse, the line and the flow of letters arranged in such a perfect form, they rhyme and stress and roll and like Grimms trail of bread they create a path or lineage far beyond the single individual crumb, to us, yet that individual drop can carry the fullness of the path held within a moment, a timeless moment, a moment when the earth stops spinning, when the universe exhales and it’s heavy shoulders drop and sigh and rest. The simple perfect moment so many times is missed, the single simple drop of food is passed and stepped and bled. Yet this silent moment lays sleeping, waiting to be found, to be noticed, to be consumed, for our fulfilment. Let not the letters about living be the opposite and therefore the death of living but understand the same to be how living is and always has been and always shall be, though there not be three but one. One simultaneous attribute which dwells not in the land of opposites but is as a photographic picture, still, steady, all embracing. The art of living is not an instruction or a path but a statement of how living is.