it's what appears, and yet even as these words come to me - it isn't quite so either. To write is to always lag just a moment from what's true, thoughts come and in an instant they give way to another moment ready to be told. My joy is writing as close to now as possible, knowing the gift given is one delayed but still spontaneous in its first appearance. The sunrise described, the telling of a birds wing in its touch within sky, to even write of trees in their slow reach of branches - is to record a memory already slipped by. But my writing takes place now, my fingers against keyboards belong to the moment every bit the same as birds wing or branch's reach. Nothing really is out of time, a true belonging always, only, takes place now. I'm here, writing, and this moment brings me joy.
~
Peace,
Eric
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