If wisdom were a crystal ball the crystal would be cracked.
The medium who’d peer into its sinuous refractions, whom
you’d hear attempt to speak the mysteries that lay in its
divided parts, would know enough not to be rough. Encroaching
on a fault in violent geology requires a soft approach. To kick it
would be wicked. Caressing it was best. You never knew
what molten brew might be more ready to construe its chaos
upon you than you had bothered to imagine. We never think
we’ll die. We may, at levels where our mitochondria supply
the breathing secrets of existence, know that dying is a lie, but
do not count on that. Any hope too tightly held becomes a bat
that writhes and spasms – wriggles monstrously against your grip
to rip away. The medium is at a loss today. Wisdom couldn’t
give a toss about whatever you would like to have a bite of.
But oh! Don’t diagnose or explicate. Wisdom is a current
in a fractured body, lacerated by exacting laughter so disruptive
and delightful that it would be tasteless to the point of spiteful
to subject it to an exegesis. Sweet Jesus, don’t explain the joke.
You’ll make the cosmos choke. Parsing it eviscerates the wow.
And then its broken bits will coalesce into a killing danger
it would now be far from wise to beckon forth. But reckon with
assurance wisdom always slinks throughout its course along
an imperfection. With luck, one random day, down in your sinew
you will know because it’s in you that this is its predilection.
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