Among other things, this past week has been run over by a number of strange circumstances. I didn't want my word of the day to be what is in the forefront of my mind right now, but it feels like something that I must unwillingly admit to, if only because I have chosen this adjective as the singular and most ironic constant in my life.
Transient.
I don't know why the font of it was green.
The word just was.
Transient= an inability to remain steady.
An inability to remain still.
I have desired transience in many aspects of my life.
Namely within my personal relationships.
I never thought it was out of fear ,but rather, out of an understanding that tying myself to a tree stump over and over again would eventually lend itself to a
dull pair of scissors.
And something that I've tied myself to voluntarily would become my
ineffectual existence.
As a part of something living, yes.
But not as a part of something moving.
It's almost a desire to remain in movement with water.
I cannot be like Earth.
In this way, I can ebb and flow in whatever direction life takes me. .....
And then I read the physical definition of transient..
:: Decaying with time.
Can transience actually be displayed as a function of something
rotting?
The very thing that has lifted me to the height of disconnected flight is the
same thing that has the ability to decay away any
welcome mats
I may have placed in random places
when I've cut the string too many times
from what I thought were
dying tree stumps.
Maybe, without knowing it,
it is I who never followed a path long enough
to decode the encrypted enigma within it.
Maybe, in actuality, we are chained by our drive for perfection.
Perhaps the decaying tree doesn't have grounded roots.
Perhaps it is grounded in my transient nature;
spindly tentacles wrapped around my pulsing,
warm-winded heart.
What starts as life, as green comes to an end in this,
that my flight, my pressure filled storm,
has been fighting against an enemy
that I've long considered my friend.
Can you give something enough water to bring it back to life,
when the summer has has already begun
Internal Autumn?
Oh, how beautiful , how colorful
the leaves change in the fall.
Before the cold of winter frosts
dark death
over us all .
-Lys
"Modernity is the transient, the fleeting, the contingent; it is one half of art, the other being the eternal and the immovable."
ReplyDelete-Charles Baudelaire