THE SPROUT

One's own past is the loam from which one's own presence, present becomes silhouetted against the harshness, emptiness, infinity of what one always delineates as the future;

One is a core, a centre, a planet's gravitational puller, that unique location deep within, never really seen or visited, for it is of such a density, that no 'visitor' ever comes out of this hole, neither black or white, yet eerily, an aurora borealis forever shimmering out from within one's core, a projection playing all over one's own life's conscience;

Each is but a sprout, a weed, a single grass blade attached into one's own past, growing out from each lived question which are now but a long or short chain of events winding it's own way through the infinite magma made of point of views to be accepted as such, each a difference, an adaptation required for the present to stretch itself out of all those questions already received, each a structural node, a relational bridging through which one's life flows;

one's future;