Spirit of the Writer

I was born on a fast flying cloud, released by a flash of lightning, and turned up naked after being carried by a wave to a distant shore. From here I lost myself in the depths of graves, mingled with bones, sifted through dust looking for the heart of a hero or the soul of a herdsman, and saw each new day through the eyes of a beggar.

I saw the multitudes worshipping the hero, and lived for a moment within the serenity of a herdsman, and felt the clinging hope of the beggar as he received bread from a stranger.

I was running the same course that writer’s before me have run, feeling the same sun, drinking from the same streams, meeting the changes they must have met while on their pilgrimage road.

I am the Spirit of Love grown older. I am the spoils of a long walk, capturing the love that falls in a misty rain. I offer my rosy fingers of fire to warm your face. I am a fabulous opera, a whirlwind, a Cimmerian shore; I am the deadly sweetness of infidelity.

You’ll find me in the darkest of nights, in central parks, in every shopping mall, pool room, and deli, ordering carrot salad or chicken from the spit. I’m every river that went to every ocean, every moment, long or short. I am the outside and the inside, the distant and the near, the magician and the rabbit. I am a mansion, a stony end house where dancing stands still. I’m the lateness of the hour. I’m the wind that drives leaves through iron railings during a dozen nights of winter. I’m those quickening footsteps leaving a hotel room, the snow falling in Amsterdam, or on the Spanish Steps. I’m those whispers in doorways. I’m the son of a fisherman, the face of many, the heart of all, and I’m the space on which these words must fall.

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