What is it that speaks to us in writing? What tugs at the soul and asks us to pause on the page, to read a passage again, to soak up some forgotten wisdom? How do we recognize it? The cynical world threatens to intrude, reminding us of times and dates and half-agreed-to obligations. But above all the bustle in our heads this tiny voice in the back quiets everything. The whisper from our youth, the closest being to our origin, created in the years when we became.
We read words and desire.
We see worlds and desire.
We open our hearts and desire.
Is it all to please the child? It is ALL to please the child? Is the child charmed?
The child at the beginning of the world, who first painted his hand and played in scenes all over the stone wall, is still in us. We think he has grown with time, that he now wears jeans, sneakers and a Ramones t-shirt. But he will always be barefoot, feeling everything beneath his souls. He will always be naked, skin to the elements. Some try to cage him, to try and make him listen. But he is us, and you cannot cage yourself for long, or make yourself be still in the spinning world.
We read words we’d have read to us a thousand times, listen to songs we’d have played for us until the end of the journey. What makes them stick, like pushpins in our mind, when so much of the world filters past? Why do we open our eyes every morning? Better yet, why do we close them at night? We will never see everything, but we will try. The little one inside sees a life as a series of endless hills, each one with something better just beyond it. Is there something beyond curiosity, something uniting beneath the face of all emotion? Does the little boy bring the spark? Does he carry it, sheltered in his hands, while he walks beside us, in us, every day?
We read words and desire.
We see worlds and desire.
We open our hearts and desire.
Is it all to please the child? It is ALL to please the child? Is the child charmed?
The child at the beginning of the world, who first painted his hand and played in scenes all over the stone wall, is still in us. We think he has grown with time, that he now wears jeans, sneakers and a Ramones t-shirt. But he will always be barefoot, feeling everything beneath his souls. He will always be naked, skin to the elements. Some try to cage him, to try and make him listen. But he is us, and you cannot cage yourself for long, or make yourself be still in the spinning world.
We read words we’d have read to us a thousand times, listen to songs we’d have played for us until the end of the journey. What makes them stick, like pushpins in our mind, when so much of the world filters past? Why do we open our eyes every morning? Better yet, why do we close them at night? We will never see everything, but we will try. The little one inside sees a life as a series of endless hills, each one with something better just beyond it. Is there something beyond curiosity, something uniting beneath the face of all emotion? Does the little boy bring the spark? Does he carry it, sheltered in his hands, while he walks beside us, in us, every day?
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