Fools deny the veil. To believe in things that seem to be, but aren’t. To refuse to see the things not apparent, that are. And even then, to grieve for so long the dissolution of illusion. To love so much the creation of my imagination, my eye craving to twist and turn and bend what is, my heart desperate to love what isn’t. Fool I say. Fools that stumble through the forest of being.
Today I escape the jailed room of your illusion. The very darkness that captured me is what releases – a homeopathic principle, the paradox of healing.
The fool in you opens the door in a momentary slip of attention. Spits out the wrong word at the right time which mirrors your interior, a momentary sight into who you are. A trickster playing heart games and the fool in me too, stumbling in my own escape, mumbling a teared up farewell.
The fool is really a trickster, knowing all along the pretence of naïveté, the nature of veils and apparitions. How to play with shadow to give the illusion of shapeliness, like an old potter making bowls that seem to float above their heaviness, impressions of depth when there’s only shallow. Fooling magic where there is none, visions from god when it’s only the tired mind’s convolutions; no god, no prayer or depth or love unattached to agendas.
This death is the beginning, inviting the solitude that regenerates, the release, finally, release.
Remember
Fools rush in where angels fear to thread.
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