The Lily and I

Late at night, I sit on the edge of the deck, legs and thoughts dangling in soothing soft darkness.  Multiplying the dim light leaking from inside the house, boldly set in black, reflecting brilliance, a small white flower smiles at me.

A lily, pure, pristine and beautiful, perfect.  Sweet feelings rise inside me, rich in playful gentleness and caring affection.  An awareness occurs, of a distance between me and the flower, the observer and the observed.

Suddenly, a thought flashes through my fluffy feelings:

“What if someone is watching me exactly the same way as I watch the flower?  In proportion larger in size and distance, the same as between me and the flower.  Someone, breathtakingly bigger, looking down at me from high above.”

All of a sudden, I am the observed, smiled at by a benevolent, mysterious observer, who sees beauty and perfection in me, and feels the same sweet, delicate tenderness towards me.

Rejection of this thought arises quickly and too easily.  “But I am not as beautiful as the flower,” my mind argues swiftly, trying to avoid the possible consequences of accepting this image, hindering the triggered deduction to be brought to an end.  A wry smile spreads across my face.

However, it’s too late.  The elevating feeling caused by this fragment of an image remains.  The thought has been thought once and is seems unerasable.

I suppose, I better get used to it.


Amadeus W.

13 December 1993
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