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The Wild Beings

When I say that we are all the things, I mean it. I don’t just mean that we are bad and mean and capable of violence and sweet and smart and soft and generous and vengeful and jealous. I mean that we are me and you and the tree and what has not yet come to pass and Jupiter and god and myth and soil and fire burning with love. We are intangible bursts of the evidence of eternity. We are the wild beings. We are the ropes that hold them back. We are the ground that gives them direction. We are the air they breathe. We are the wild beings. We are drowning and gasping and floating and jumping and feeling and coming and going and laughing. Oh how we are the laughing. We are the spittle-sputtle of the laughter of a God so big-small and so indistinct from atoms or Adam that we could never recognize it, any more than we can see the silver threads that connect us beneath, above, and through every surface of existence.

Come sit beside me, and we will pretend we can see how close we really are.

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