Age Has Slowed Me Now

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NASA/ESA/Moaz - NGC 1512
Age Has Slowed Me Now

Age has slowed me now to make me sense a certain rhythm hidden within our life. This is the knowing, the feeling, of the pulse pulse pulsing of hope that is one genesis of our humble so human dreams as when, sky by cloud occluded, we yearn for Sun as in childhood we only felt felt those warm playful days of Summer so quickly passing that nevertheless kept, retained, their promise to be in later years recalled when such warming warmth remembered momentarily makes us keeps us still and happy whenever some bleak coldness or perhaps some inhumanity by others intrudes.

So how could I have desired, in extremis, to so violently change, destroy, all this? And why? Why? For this is only just only what it is – one city, planted, where hope, burgeoning, lives. I was such a fool, such a fool, so mangled inside by hubris.

But age, slowing, slowly brought a pathei-mathos, to plant, produce, the necessary interior human change. Long gone thus the ideologies, the hate, that grew so many hallucinations of life. Long gone those illusive ideas that so badly vivified, putrefied: death to love within.

Now: now such perception of the pulse pulse pulsing of the blood of human hope to bring me joy: even here, especially here where such rush rush rushing beclaims and those traffic-sounds are but a distant sea always but only slightly surging. No need to hate them here, there, where. How, just how, could I have been so stupid? For this is growth just growing: love, hope, seeping, seeding, planting, keeping our humanity the way our Sun seeds our world with Life.

As that young woman, there, who, patiently waiting, waits where passengers embarking disembarked betake themselves away and this platform is all only all that it is: beginning here to end by ending there. But no train now, just yet. So she glances, glancing: nervous, watching, waiting, hopeful, hasteless, seeing time slowly as measured by a clock unticking high above our platform, there.

Such joy on faces as he her hope arrives. Two bodies melding melded it does not matter I cannot understand the language of their words shared. I am stilled, silenced, suspended, borrowed, left, reclaimed. No more me, you, they, here, there, where. No separation, no divide. Only now, this-now: one place in one city since humanity – love, flowing – flows on to gift one Earth with Life.

How, just how could I have been so stupid, so inhuman, so insolent, so hurtful, so lacking in the health of love?

“ὕβρις φυτεύει τύραννον.” Sophocles: Oedipus Tyrannus [1]

“What is hurtful to you, do not do to someone else. That is the entire Torah; the rest is only explanation.” Hillel the Elder, Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 31a

“Let us then try what love can do.” William Penn: Some Fruits of Solitude

David Myatt
March 2012 ce

[1] Insolence [hubris] plants the tyrant. (v.872)

 


Image credit: NASA/ESA/Moaz – NGC 1512