Mortar and pestle...two dissimilars into one.
Striking the flame ,the yellow soon becomes blue...The crucible's contents in flux, changing state.
I await the outcome, pondering my fate. So it is with two of another kind...contrary, yet only to the blind.
Earth, Water, Fire , Air and Nous,what differentiates them...if only a cosmic ruse?
I stare at the Flame, and from within it bellows a troubadours song and charm; the molten crucible reflects a distorted image, similiar to my own...and yet still unrecognizable.
Like Amergin's vision that summoned the noble to arms. So too, discovery bids me to reflect and rekindle the fires of youth, calling me to don the warriors shield and sword...But not now...No, my life is settled here, like the hundred year old stream that knows its course.
Pen and notebook, like mortar and pestle. The histories and epics of old, the dreams of poets,the words of the stoic mage ground from rough kernals of variance and discord...to a polished compound of one.
Pen and Paper...Flame and Crucible, Summoning words from the silence.. precious metal from the ore...The real - to the surreal.
The surreal - to the real.
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