~ a poem about individuation
We are painting
On the canvas
Of self
With steps
And stories
Each flourish
A day
Every splotch
A desire
Casting our brush
Back and forth
Betwixt ambiguous infinities
And dawning mortality
We are easily mused
In the foreground,
Conscious movements create enticing experientia
At the background,
Unconscious streams flow into unseen ravines
This parchment beckons us to its ends
Of meetings and departures long longed for
But with each two
There is only one One
And it is dreadful
In all the ways a singularity might be
These distressingly delightful bends
Upon the paper
Are spheres of aesthetic religiosity
And they are rotating about us
Ever so subjectively
On this vista
One works ever alone
Locked behind an easel
Sighting no other
Not one single traveler.
The sketch of individuation
Full of a fearsome madness made manifest
Dawns a lonesome path
Befalling these damnable eyes are shadows
They play unto wakes and dreams alike
With no heed to our horizons
And no focal to fall to
To doff the pencil
Is to reject the responsibility
Abandon the art
Destroy the design
Yet so often it occurs
So many succumb
By our hand
The painting burns
An unearned escape
One we pay for
At the end of the composition
We justly watch
We lose the All
Without a murmur
Excepting a sigh
And we don no replacement
The steps stop
And the Self sits
Awaiting the end.
However,
It is no eventuality.
Here is one’s quarry:
i) Pick up your chosen instrument
ii) Put it to the page
iii) Turn it illustrious.
That is all there is to it. ~
Thresholds of Transformation 