Reading, writing, no difference
Reading is outer writing
Writing is inner reading
When I read other people’s words, those I lack, those I admire, or in which I can reflect,
I allow them to be written on my inner paper sheet.
As I write, I hold the book of my soul beneath my spiritual eye
and fish the letter blocks from the tip of my pen, as they slowly surface.
Yet, in both cases, reality is shortened,
incomplete, for a transitory good.
Through learning and sharing, words combine
and seep in the cracks of our craving shells,
before giving way.
In the meantime, the well-crafted diversion of collected sentences
peacefully let the silence grow.
When ink will flow along the paper hull of our orimami boats
when paper words will crumble down, as they all eventuallly do,
then we shall rest on the river of silence.
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