Monday, February 22, 2016

Jaipur. Like a piece of cloth

Open the door and you will slip right through. It's allowed. It's different but not that much. You will see. The hours spent lying on the street or in the sun these are the hours you exist, one in many. The days you spend working with your hands or brain. These are the days you spend, flowing, floating. The barks you hear of dogs or hogs, these are the sounds of days. Your days or the days of others. These are all days. Scraping of chairs or folding of burlap or chiseling of marble or rolling of incense or guiding or whistling at wrongdoers, those who climb the wrong ramparts, these are the occupations of your time, yours and everyone's. Finding sun or shade or walking or riding you move in motions your's and everybody's. Lie still as the city spreads and drains and produces and sells and stands and settles. These are accomplished without resistance or with resistance or somewhere between resistance and non-resistance. Like a piece of cloth. 

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