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Worshipping Lali

The real is nameless

The real is nameless. Sublime. In the ineffable moment of sunrise, in the first glimpse of a suckling child, in the contemplation of the bold and starry expanse of death, words slip away. The heart races. We gasp. We ache to cloak such magnificence in the garbs of the familiar. Yet we are slain. For me, for now, this is ‘the beautiful’ then: to know this recurrent death, to be troubled and disturbed, to let the embroidered sandstorms of a strange land carry you off predetermined paths, to briefly feel the pulsing aliveness of something other than yourself. To know that when a root burrows into the earth, that when a murmuring of birds stitch new hues of sky, and when the sway and graceful dance of oceans chastise exhausted shores, an enactment beyond intelligibility is underway. A cosmic breathing together is happening. And ‘my’ heaving resignation, my many ‘deaths’, are in tune.

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.