The Mystery.

| April 29th, 2008

There is a thing that is near memory. A thing that pulses and pounds within the human heart. It ebbs and flows with the tides of our blood. It spikes with the tingle of forgotten nerves. It dews in every tear, draws with every breath, and flits away with every smile. There is a thing that is beyond remembrance, and sensation, beyond that what we know, what we can grasp. There is a thing that echoes in the depths of our dreams, and hides behind every thought that we make A forgotten thing, and yet remembered for a time when we laugh or sing. When smell the odors of home, or touch the patina of our lives. Life and death play out a thousand dramas within a land, a feeling, a world which we can never know, but know is ever there. There is no time, all moments compressed into a single heartbeat, all places within the immediate. Passion, sorrow, salvation, despair. All things and nothing and the shadow of infinite and yet fleeting moments. All poets seek it, and fear it. They flee and follow it. And yet none know what it is.

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