The Origami of Passion
When a place feels as if it was a part of your own body. We are an intimate part of a place. The flowing river, rocks rising toward empyrean, its rhythms pulsing in synch with our own. It becomes our own. I understand now the inseparability of the place with its inhabitants.
I now realize, the safe walls I’ve been erecting around me, layer upon layer, were nothing more than translucent glass, ready to shatter to pieces with just a tap of a small trigger. How vulnerable, and naked, I am. And they saw, the fragile folded leaves, only a gossamer fiber. How easily they could strip me naked, and violate its fragile sanctity. And how powerful that force in alchemy when it catches the precariously flickering flame.
Ah….I was to blame. I seduced mercilessly. Shamelessly, forgetting there was scorching blood pulsing through those fragile veins; the colossal tidal wave that brought all of humanity and other life force onto this shore.
And my own, withering inside a glass jar, how it must’ve longed for that brutish force to shatter my glass and reach in. And with the powerful despair of a dying flame, I reached…for those innocent dusty wings, in an instant of sizzling flare turn to pinch of ashes, a drop of sand. And I wanted it.
You see, he was an unsuspecting passerby, caught on the weaving dance of a virgin widow. He had mistaken the gossamer trap for a shiny silken winged creture. But she was a creature that fed on shiny fantasies and dreams. A dreamy creature, a fragile creature made of iridiscent integument. How fragile those dreams, when stamping feet of monstrous Reality come charging, crumbling her delicate chrysalis. And some ingraspable alchemy happens when life and death merges, single gossamer fabric folding, unfolding, finally has yielded at this juncture, a strangely fey unrecognizable creature emerging from that origamic fold.