Sunday, August 29, 2010

the smallest in the best of us.

Few words have power to be ugly in any situation; somewhere they shine, somewhere they contribute. The inappropriate diminutive screams a hollow whine that begs audacity. I can't sit beneath the words... poor little thing, little nap, little home, little friend without white-knuckling the fading remains of the conversation. Does the speaker really use this to prove their own power or greatness? Or is it a left over sensitivity murmuring from my own height. Nobody who has stayed awake through the night would doubt the value of a brief sleep. The man without a home has different scales for any shelter.
I don't think of myself as short and am always surprised when any reference is made. I still think trivial chat belongs to those without depth or colour, and find myself looking for a door, big or small.
Within my own wonderland, time and comparisons are found only in the reflection of strange places and people who babble on about time and achievement. Nobody refers to a diamond or pearl as little, only to their perceived quality. The little ocean, little nation, little greed, little panic only tells us that somebody is short sighted and has missed the distress, the volume.
It bounces about rooms and papers with painless smiles, only to reply in a echo that the observer was a tourist. They hadn't smelt or felt the reality because they missed the purpose of soaking, trusting and embracing the greatness possible; in the stone, the sleep, the moment.         

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