platonic

sos strange how much of a hurry i’ve always been in rushing dancing tripping toward what i could not say, saying it anyway to hear what it’s like and find the parts i broke in my haste, wasting the beauty to hope for higher pleasure later on, the divine pleasure of knowing already so you can just be radiant in that truth and very very still. stillness is valued by the cultures who have remained quiet on truth—then there are ones who shout it it frantically shaking their fists below their waistline running, ass hurting from their assertions, here we are still gathering armfuls, bushels poking our lips and eyes as we run like waddle footed children to the windmill we can’t even see for our thrushes. but love is like bread, you grind it and heat it and feed it to each other again and again says the wisest woman i know, who sat so still, hands politely composed, while i shuffled my boots, trying to flap pages hard enough to to catch the meotic truths, splitting my tongue relative to the haste only i could see. but what she didn’t say was that bread requires so much stillness while it grows in place, rising ready for the final stolid weight, we confuse the frenetic hunger and consumption with the end but it is made again and again and the stillness remains in the ontology. and love, made and bereft and made again, love is truth because truth is goodness and we can roll that dough into an ouroboros with only our lips, surrounded by the calmness of air lifting up the fact, synthesizing the base into the divine, stretching out infinitesimally lengthening wrapping all the disparity into a stolid finite pattern. we must wait, always, before truth may cross our lips, born between those barbicans of bone to smack our lips over it, coat it in grease and roll our eyes and feed each other crumbs until there seems to be nothing left, and again we must wait.