We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.
Those who don`t feel this Love
pulling them like a river,
those who don`t drink dawn
like a cup of springwater
or take in sunset like supper,
those who don`t want to change,
let them sleep
This Love is beyond the study of theology,
that old trickery and hypocrisy.
If you want to improve your mind that way,
I`ve given up on my brain.
I`ve torn the cloth to shreds
and thrown it away.
If you`re not completely naked,
wrap your beautiful robe of words