The reality of a blue, jettisoned egg on a patio does not stand apart from the reality of the thinker caught up in the act of inspection. The two complete one another, and create, in the parliament of perception, the bill of applicable words. In the act of intrepid investigation, the thinker takes the “curious egg” to the cerebral laboratory where the alchemy of language boils over in great synaptic alembics. The egg becomes something greater in the neuro-lab; something that lives on beyond the materiality of perceivable space.
Even though the blue shell doesn’t speak, the symbol the mind creates for it sings to the imagination. Even though the blue shell has no beak to sing with, it contains the reverberations of Mom’s lost song. This is the essence of magic: the transference of information through an etheric medium rife with meaning.
The broken blue egg will live on for a time, and the thinker for a longer time, and then the broken egg will be replaced by other jettisoned eggs and the thinker by other thinkers. Remember: our subtle history is a clandestine collection of small perceptions. The sacred seeps into this world through fissures in the insignificant.
We’re meant to carry forward our ruminations on emptiness and form.
2 comments:
thank you, this helped me today - release the sadness of the broken.
it's ok to destroy and create and destroy and create
Half a Robin's egg found on the anniversary of my conception and my name is Robin.
Coincidence? There's no such thing.
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