The example of the artist’s life is where the Truth rests. But we only care to see it, once we have approved of what the artist has made.
Rumi’s poetry sings. It caresses and rocks the soul. Its heart is light and attentive to the sunrise. It is pure and gentle and full of longing and rumination. It stretches and grasps. His words answer questions born out of the stillness of becoming. Growing – maturing. Ripening.
This ripe fruit is an image gifted to us from the trees. And the trees stand still – they live until one day their hardened bark gives way to death’s ever-present soiling.
The future is a fantasy we construct today. It is a focal point, a desire, a fixation – that we indulge in the long hours of our present.
Our want of the future is a way of distracting ourselves from what feels already completed. Immovable – unmakeable. For in the Now, there is only one way to be –
And I am already bored with today. When I breathe, I want to inhale tomorrow’s light. Tomorrow’s DNA – its undoneness.
Accounting is a word full of connotation – lacking in imagination and completely counted out, written off by the seeing.
Thus, I hand you a gift. Future is latent within its dusty cupboards, its forgotten scaffolds – its honest precision. Future is asleep in its potential.
I want to make my way through cold discarded names and narrow alleyways and cracked hinges. I want to reconcile what has already been abandoned.
All this to say, I want to lure the future here, so it can wean my needy heart.
From, On What I See, 2024
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