There is nothing terrible, just things that happen, even massacres or unsightly things... you can strip yourself of morals, ethics, humanitarianism, of safety shelter, strength, confidence, shame, harm, fury and calm, but then this lighted shadow remains all around you. You in a sense return to the state of youth a child endures in the first months of its Being... You can tell Aristotle never had a child. You can tell his mother did all his laundry, that he didn't mind wearing the same sandals for their lifetime, that he sipped wine as though it was a potion... because it is.

But this isn't about aristotle or lessons or what anyone is supposed to do. Its plancicoudifad.

The aging step of humanity is the impression left on each generation that has to learn and relearn and reteach with degrees of virtual err because we don't know why we return to the same cycles of ridiculous self-infliction. How deep man realizes that his realism is his fabrication of standards, meeting ones that aren't real at all, but forms of certainty draped in the glass frame of appearance... a man in a suit is either a genius or a thief... and I become him or become his nemesis, because I hate his deceit or love his clever keen.

I saw some trees peering over my roof today and thought how fantastic it would be to capture how bare and upwardly pointed each branch was, like the roots of a tree... and before i even took the picture, I looked through the lens and saw a severely dull image that would've inevitably ended up in the recycling bin if I pushed that button any further... so I didn't. I pulled the camera from my eye and like a bard saw its truth standing only strong when it wasn't being refracted through glass. And a single whisper let me know what was happening, letting me know my place and capacity...

plancicoudifad