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"I didn't write this. I never wrote this. This was utterly not me. If you want me, I am here William" Sorry dear. This is something unrelated to your William, a past that fits with Zoe, but I was intrigued and happy to see another William come here. More's the merrier, especially in this place, this random, makingitupaswegoalong, paradoxical place -:) |
Is an entirely different entity than the messian William.
The once distantly-scribbling pen isn't anymore. It is yours. Your hand.
The words cling while the breeze that blows from the world above the words still blows strong. Hints of ringing clergy bells.
Memories of sandals, biting into the soft of feet. Hints of desert-creek-bed robes (and before that, the t-die green shirt with the bright yellow smiley face). Impressions of a chestnut-coloured pony tail brushing a back.
Deserts of driving through. A crossroad. Words spoken.
A sense of falling. Always falling.
A voice like a rich desert stream on an island.
A memorymoment of a book open on the table, with your cat lying by your cup of coffee. The book is open to one page:
'Love...is the extremely difficult realization that something other than oneself is real." --Iris Murdoch.
Cruelty has a Human Heart,
And Jealousy a Human Face;
Terror the Human Form Divine,
And Secrecy the Human Dress.
The Human Dress is forged Iron,
The Human Form a fiery Forge,
The Human Face a Furnace seal'd,
The Human Heart is hungry Gorge.
-- William Blake