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~The longing of our soul to follow the vine back to it's root~


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Author Topic: ~The longing of our soul to follow the vine back to it's root~  (Read 36 times)
elfun
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« on: Dec 10, 2012 07:39 am »


Everything is connected, each word, each leaf. Each poem, drawn and held together by the thread of our own experience, and the longing of our own Soul to follow the vine back to its root.~John Millar♥
« Last Edit: Dec 12, 2012 08:17 pm by steve hydonus/jitendra » Report Spam   Logged
Demian
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« Reply #1 on: Dec 12, 2012 07:18 pm »


Everything is connected, each word, each leaf. Each poem, drawn and held together by them threaad of our own experience, and the longing of our own Soul to follow the vine back to its root.~John Millar♥

I was in a classroom of life. The lesson began and I made an effort to pay attention.
I began to feel something odd from the side where he  sat, an emptiness or coolness
or something similar as though the seat next to me had suddenly became vacant .
When the feeling became  opressive I turned  to look.

there I saw my friend sitting upright his shoulders braced back as
usual. Nonetheless, he looked completely different and something
emanated  from him, something surrounded him that was unkkown to me.

I first thought he had his eyes closed but then saw they were open yet they were not focused
on anything it was an unseen gaze - they seemed transfixed with looking inward
or into a great distance. he sat there completely motionless,
not even seeming to breathe; His mouth might have been carved from wood or stone.
His face was pale, uniformly pale likes a stone and his brown hair was the part of
him that seemed closest to being alive.  His Hands  lay before him
 life less and still as objects like stones or fruit , pale motionless yet not limp
but like good strong pods sheathing a hidden, vigorous life.

« Last Edit: Dec 12, 2012 08:19 pm by steve hydonus/jitendra » Report Spam   Logged
Demian
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« Reply #2 on: Dec 14, 2012 10:45 pm »


Everything is connected, each word, each leaf. Each poem, drawn and held together by the thread of our own experience, and the longing of our own Soul to follow the vine back to its root.~John Millar♥

continued....

I trembled at the sight. Dead, I thought, almost saying it aloud. My spellbound eyes were fixed on his face, on this pale
stone mask, and I felt: this was my real friend. When he walked beside me and talked to me-that was only half of him,
someone who periodically plays a role, adapts himself, who out of sheer compliance does as others do. My real friend, however, looked like this, as primeval, animal, marble, beautiful and cold, dead yet secretly filled with fabulous life. And around him that quiet emptiness, this ether, interstellar space, this lonely death!

Now he had gone completely into himself, I felt, and I trembled. Never had I been so alone. I had no part in him; he was inaccesable; he was more remote from me than if he had been on the distant island in the world.

I could hardly grasp it that no one besides me noticed him! Everyone should have looked at him, everyone should have trembled! But no one heeded him. He sat there like a statue, and, I thought, proud as an idol! A fly lighted on his forehead and scurried across his nose and lips-not a muscle twitched.

Where was he now? What was he thinking? What did he feel? Was he in heaven or hell?

I was unable to put a question to him. At the end of the period when I saw him alive and breathing again, as his glance met mine, he was the same as he had been before. Where did he come from? Where had he been? He seemed tired. His face was no longer pale, his hands moved agian, but now the brown hair was without luster, as though lifeless.

During the next few days, I began a new exercise in my bedroom. I would sit rigid in a chair, make my eyes rigid too,
and stay completely motionless and see how long I could keep it up and what I would feel. I felt very tired and my eyelids itched.
« Last Edit: Dec 14, 2012 11:09 pm by Demian » Report Spam   Logged

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