Man hopes. Genius creates. 

RWEmerson2 1The one thing in the world of value is the active soul,—the soul, free, sovereign, active. This every man is entitled to; this every man contains within him, although in almost all men obstructed, and as yet unborn. The soul active sees absolute truth and utters truth, or creates. In this action it is genius; not the privilege of here and there a favorite, but the sound estate of every man. In its essence it is progressive. The book, the college, the school of art, the institution of any kind, stop with some past utterance of genius. This is good, say they,—let us hold by this. They pin me down They look backward and not forward. But genius always looks forward. The eyes of man are set in his forehead, not in his hindhead. Man hopes. Genius creates. 

 

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The American Scholar

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Entwining soul fibres

 

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He perches on a stool at a table that abuts a ceiling-to-floor window, sipping a dark latte in a double insulated glass. He hunches over his newspaper, his grey T-shirt rising to reveal his lower back and a slip of red from under lightly fraying and faded jeans. He glances over the top of his newspaper, through the window onto the passing city foot traffic in the lane way. He fixes on the occasional woman in red or man in blue that speed by. His gaze stops at the door of the café. He wills it open and when it does open, his knee bounces and his heel jitters on the foot rest beneath the stool. A new customer approaches the counter requesting coffee and a toasted focaccia on the run. Baristas move in speedy hustle sending coffee machines to grind and hiss in steam. He relaxes back into his reading.

A couple at a corner table wearing black suits chat in dynamic pitch. Hands wave and heads nod. One has a bubble-glassed coffee while the other has a cup of tea stained in milk. They’re oblivious to anyone or anything but one another, immersed in their conversation.

After the umpteenth willing of the door open, his expression changes.

He leaps from his stool in eyes of gaping gawk at the door that’s opened. His hunch has disappeared and he’s much taller and leaner than his slouch disclosed. He smiles deep in lines of happy as he fixates on her.

She gazes around, and smiles in the sparkle of a star when she spots him. She walks toward him as a beaming light, her step quickening and extending in stride that makes her toned legs skinned by jeans, long and slender. Her unruly locks part to the sides. Each stride beams in more light.

They have not yet touched but they’re already connected by invisible soul fibres that entwine and draw them to one another. Their pull of power is unwavering. The couple at the corner table and baristas stop in gob-smacked jaw.

They embrace as those soul fibres bolt into golden padlocks set deep in hearts. They fuse as the one mass to become their own shooting star, where no other realm exists. And even when they draw back their heads to gaze at one another, they’re still emitting their impenetrable sparkle.

Then comes the kiss … deep in longing; lingering and locked in effervescence. They kiss without restrain as a glowing sentinel in the café. Their arms and hands fit in perfect place over one another, chests and thighs fuse to become one body and they radiate in multi-dimension to the extremities of the Universe.

They release. He pulls a stool for her and takes her hand to guide her to sit. They chat but the conversation doesn’t matter. It’s more about the way she relaxes one hand over his knee while the other grips his bicep as she leans in to chat. He gazes at her in wait while resting his hand over hers.

A waiter brings her a coffee in a long glass topped with whipped cream, and a slice of Linzer tart on a plate with two forks. She breaks off a piece with her fingers and feeds it into his mouth, then kisses him to catch the crumbs falling from his lips.

She sips her coffee and scoops at her cream; he chats and strokes her hair behind her ear. They sometimes giggle, but always touch. He cuts some tart onto the fork and eases it to her mouth. She savours it, then his lips. They embrace.

One after another that passes by the window look in to catch their sparks.

He and she don’t notice. They see nothing but her and him. Nothing more matters.

 

 

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Seasons of the Soul

Who looks in the sun will see no light else; but also he will see no shadow. Our life revolves unceasingly, but the centre is ever the same, and the wise will regard only the seasons of the soul. 

Thoreau,

Journal, March 10, 1841

 

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