Is the slug in the grass aware of the bee in the garden? An ambulance roars by and stops at a house up the street. Too late. A hearse pulls away. And why, in the time of crisis, did I feel nothing beyond my apple and persimmon for lunch? Why do I not know when a homeless man nurses his frostbitten feet in front of the mission downtown? Are my senses really so dull? Are they atrophied and sealed by scars? Then again, what if I did know? Would I be overwhelmed? And where would it end? Would I survive the destruction of whole forests, the pollution of the atmosphere and oceans, the bloody injustices of man against man? Is this what I am? Someone who knows in the abstract what he cannot bear in detail? Someone who lives while finding out what living is? Someone who loves unto death, and is grateful as yet to arrive at no conclusion?
November 17, 2019
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