The perfect taste of simple things, rising in the heart long before the mind begins its destructive ordering. If we should feel small, then in smallness let us be the greatest insignificance; and by chance if ever we become a singularity in ourselves surely we will expand and become the universe.
The shallow fear of simple things, catching off guard all who wander on paths stained by longing or painted stones and curiosity. As though it were our fault that fault cannot be levied against any one man’s chest and held there… austere, obscure and unyielding.
If only he could clench the guilt for us, we might gather around and uphold his visage and proclaim that all blame is forgotten and now each heart could skip and run and fall and fly without that weight of despair stringing down our hopeful souls.
The gentle nudge of simple things, reminding each distraction that real answers and their questions are always out beyond the solutions we settle into. And here is the lull in our reason, the cliff-side fence-post where we stop to behold the expanse of sighted creation knowing just beyond leaping is freedom. We are not stars nor dust but something shared in between.
The sated pleasure of simple things, which end and begin out of order then fade and appear in us just the same.