slow with words
issue 41: matching the beat of imagination
heel to toe. eyes grazing the asphalt, crooked from the roots that refuse to be buried. the tips of my fingers, tingling from rising anticipation. trunks dripping with sap, crystalized by the nightly breeze.
have i fallen in love again? all those times exploring canvas, exhibition, and shapes to bring me back to humble, slow words. it was Parthenope1 that unclogged my ears to the rhythm of writing.
our interiors are pulled out like yarn through patient observation. to observe is to see without judgement. to write is to weave imagination into language that others can experience. they say, “I see how you think.”
the chase for recognition follows overrated paths. hopefully, we stay awake enough to know where we led astray. the farther we drift from essence, the more time we need to get back home. and on that walk, sometimes there’s shame, and hopefully also, curiosity of where to move next.
detours show us where we haven’t explored. realizations are souvenirs that look like disparate knick-knacks. let time tell you what that was all for, but don’t expect time to move on your watch.
oh, i see.
to witness oneself is to be patiently observing sans judgement or affliction with time. in seeing oneself, we keep the portal of imagination open. sandbags as doorstops, gusts lifting senses of gravity, as interiors absorb the exterior world.
there’s no running now, as what once was resistance has vaporized. pulses emanating from its core like hypnotic waves at sunset. with thoughts like firecrackers, i stop and start again. i match my tempo to its beat.
“Parthenope” by Paolo Sorrentino