Lately I’ve been dabbling in experimental writing. The following is the first draft of something I wrote yesterday. I do not like much of it, but the rememberance of how it felt to be expressed gives it worth to me.
When I momentarily sense my breath, perhaps when the leaf has lost its way, and I see her swinging downward in the rhythm of my lungs, away from the steadily freezing branches, and approaching the pavement– there is a bitter-sweet breeze in my thoughts, or lack thereof. She has died, but her way to death is worth witnessing ten times over again.
The conduct of “purpose” man has established becomes illusory to me. Would it make sense for man to build a house out of fallen leaves for the sake of fulfilling their duty for us? No. Such is ludicrously redundant. A solitude and fortress, a house rooted in beauty, has already formed in the wind, when it catches the leaf by her hands, and dances with her to the ground. Need we more? We have less if we have sensed none but our fleeting impulses.
We must sense our present presence. The things we do not control. The rhythms under our dissonant orchestrations, our attempts to grasp the same current that has pulled many a drunk man under by their foolishenss some night after the orgy.
They have done one thing right, however, stepping outside and drinking of the moonlight, stripping bare in bold honesty, and frolicking in nature. But they have taken the bottle with them…created a mind of their own before setting a toe in the river. So they have drowned.