Could I riddle you a smile?

(Til deg, T...)



blip blip blip blip
The fireflies pop av og på
before a lake behind
(that aspires to capture the heavens
and make it its own;
stupid lake
vet ikke at
the heavens are eons away
and a tad bit bigger
than itself)

And life plays out in a series of ballets,
Craftspeople we, weaving carpets
of sensitive twirls and curls
each weave intending into a coherent whole.

In a quiet trance of meditation
ask yourself the riddle
of life's existence;
i have no answer,
but it does seem beautiful,
to exist at all.
and to know that existence is.
("Not beautiful" The Kulk would say, but "Sublime.")

Distangling each weave,
i realise,
there's nothing left!

Mayhaps an simplification, but-
There is no ought-to-be.
Would i be audacious enough to claim that there ought not be an ought-to-be?
Nay. I give you that.
Baskets are beautiful people.
In the weaves, there emerge the oughts and nots;
but, if you will it so, there need not be
an ought to be.
Si?

Sigh. If you keep that aside,
we can still dance to the rhythm of life.
Lub dub, lub dub.
Because life is.
And, why not,
smil :)

How far will you run?

Like a hare, in leaps and bounds, from the hound that chases you?

Maybe till the end of your world? And then a leap beyond, only to realise that that leap made the next world yours too.

(no leap of faith, this. What faith.)

How far will you run from the rules that you set for yourself? How fast can you run? Faster than the speed of thought?

How far will you run a round and round (så går vi rundt om en enebærbusk, en enebærbusk, en enebærbusk) this vat of neurons?

Until the hound catches you, rapes you. Again.

With no peace.


And while the world dances around the juniper bough, someone somewhere is whimpering in hunger; you dance around a non-existent juniper bush, which you believe is burning.

How far will you run, min kjære, before you curl up into a cringe and whimper.
I'll run as far as need be, to rise from the ashes.
To run again, yes?