Along the winding roll of toilet paper I read, “Romeo, o Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” In my early, “formative years”, I always looked for splits - in walls and secret spaces - where Confucius-style teachers were likely to pass their knowledge on. Sages, whose knowledge came from memory, not history.
You with wide eyes and nowhere to go, become your own everything, if you can. God is luck and we must all wait our turn.
That grey morning, when I stood as part of a garden – Monet style, wind-blown colors - the nurturing and desensitizing began. Pollination, fertilization and crossbreeding for the desired thought patterns and memories were carried out on us, yet we were still cloned expressions in a mono-culture. Autumn was the most poignant of memories: the time when we stood facing the forging of another cycle. Thoughts and memorized facts were harvested, seeds saved for future use. The waves of leaves crashing upon the sidewalk drowned out the sound of our steps, covering the dark earth imprints we had made on this earth. I wrapped myself in a wintery silence of remembered loneliness - the loneliness of birth - and walked home.
Out of the millions of words used everyday, only those that are bold - not part of the same old mold - have any chance of speciation in the generations to come. I find it funny: the same words I saw year after year will now, in a different order (essentially a different language), be the words I’ll use to escape this samsara of learning and relearning.
Words; soft and bending, loving, revolting,, revolutionary, manipulating, building and hiding...
It should be known by now that poetry creates error: a simple disruption in the genetic sequence that can go beyond the limits of destiny and even reprogram progress to mean change.
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