One could watch the waves tumble in and tumble out. These waves have no mind, no human mind. However, a human mind receives composure from the churning of the sea. Not aware that the brain is as always frothing within itself a form of bigotry. The nature of a human mind is entirely based on, very simply, 'convenience, suitability and an inherent need for self-preservation.'
Some of those meaningful conversations one may have with is oneself. There could be an imminent danger of being clouded, yet there is a silver lining in knowing that the sun will shine.
A surge of those high tides lashing at the sky; a human mind thinks, "the sea is in a burning rage, the sky is placid". Truth is they are neither. They are as they are. In their movements lie no secrets.
Mulling over these, the raven takes a flight of life to another existential plane, where there is not a single being from the human community. Gliding over the mountains, covering the immeasurable horizon, floating on the surface of it's summer. It hits a cold cloud like a man's hand at the end of a life. It flies towards the darkness of what is next, towards the dampness of the loss of summer.
It loves Winter the most of all, between Summer and Winter, everything is water. There is a realm in which there are no names of the dead, or saints or history of any kind. The raven lands there and closes it's eyes.
Some of those meaningful conversations one may have with is oneself. There could be an imminent danger of being clouded, yet there is a silver lining in knowing that the sun will shine.
A surge of those high tides lashing at the sky; a human mind thinks, "the sea is in a burning rage, the sky is placid". Truth is they are neither. They are as they are. In their movements lie no secrets.
Mulling over these, the raven takes a flight of life to another existential plane, where there is not a single being from the human community. Gliding over the mountains, covering the immeasurable horizon, floating on the surface of it's summer. It hits a cold cloud like a man's hand at the end of a life. It flies towards the darkness of what is next, towards the dampness of the loss of summer.
It loves Winter the most of all, between Summer and Winter, everything is water. There is a realm in which there are no names of the dead, or saints or history of any kind. The raven lands there and closes it's eyes.
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