To say this and nothing more may be ‘oh-well’ for the frenzied passer-by who has no time for nice sounding platitudes, and is too occupied licking his fear, his angst and his wounded self – until we whisper to him that the ‘self’ he so despondently protects is just as derived, just as made up, just as fleeting, just as holographic, just as ancient.
In the listless student and the drunken father, in the madman forgotten by the highways of upward mobility, in the burdened pilgrim buried under the weight of her own reified sin, there are universes of grand gestures, musical trellises of alien silence, magical treasures too profound for an ego to bear, songs the lyrics of which we remember in purple ecstasy, square-jawed heroes with arms akimbo and faces against fierce wind, memories of adventures with dragons and swordsmen, and the calming ethereal face of a loved one in a different life. Nothing is original, because everything is.
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