人生如一朵浮云
人生如一朵浮云I've opened thecurtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in aholy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above theneighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while, thenbecomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big andlittle and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead ordroop because there must always be leading and drooping.
Thetrees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them withswaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted,somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water whichsometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of greenleaves-clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change anddissipate like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but acloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put outtentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to otherpeople as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don'tI drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmthof compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds,are we not all well advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us inhere and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps aswe imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One inmany, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots inthe spirit.
I close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over. Applause is sweeping through the trees. kfk kf dafsdgsdagsadgsd
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