Published in  
August 11, 2013


Isn’t it mind-numbingly marvelous to consider that through our often bitter arguments about what exists and what does not, through angry spiels and eloquent war-cries about resisting this or that, behind our convenient constructions of what is real and what is not, what is sacred and what is not, what is worthy and what is not, reality herself always remains irretrievably and blissfully ambivalent?

She is a young lass with fire in her eyes, silhouetted by her angry suitors and their blood-tipped swords drawn against each other.

No items found.

Her heart however beats in vain for the playful shepherd boy on the hill – whose contours she will never feel nor touch. For it is the lot of what we have come to call reality to never know, like love requited, the finality of absolute definition.