Because none are born a god, the great life is always a large part imprisonment; greatness must stand against something other than great to exist, also within a great human. The battle is a life only if the monster is strong enough, says the philosopher, and goes deeper into the cave as the scientist and the mystic halt. The Greek myth describe what he finds there. And out of this comes a society, so splendorous as the flower of time itself, so that its seedlings fill the web of time and time becomes green, lush, full of world an wonder and here, now, are we reflecting on this in the pearl of a fish eyed orblet of dew, only that, like dew in a field. Or are we the boot that mashes the blades of grass and steps on the ladybug? Or perhaps the lightning holding its breath above in the dense purple clouds? Or the tendon hewn out of marble, from which another orblet rolls into infinity, why have they made our consciousnesses so deep as to be able to think of such trivial things...
Subject: The great life 
Fri Oct 23, 2015 4:04 pm
