The Perfection Of The Moment
Sometimes I find myself poised in the perfection of the moment, unwilling to disturb the spontaneous arrangement of objects and inhabitants of the room, the street or the open expanse by objectifying, theorising or otherwise categorising the sudden harmony of the passing seconds. Let them be the puppets of the energies activating their presence and fluid posturing. Let me be the silent witness surveying the ongoing creation of every instant. Let the ambitions and desires unfold as they wish. Let the actions and reactions reverberate. Let me be a detail among details. Let the symphony orchestrate itself.
I see there is nothing missing from the ballet of gestures. All is known and understood as each moment empties itself into the next as the river of time lets its sailors glide through the endless theatres of character, plot, conflict and resolution, until the game of life gives up its secrets, settles its debts and divines various futures to fit with the variety of desires.
All that is left is to let the moment sing its song, its ongoing unending theme with variations.