Thank you again for writing this. It feels strange to write, but still, wishing you as happy a new year as possible in these conditions.
I found something in my scattered journals earlier this morning I must have wrote 2 or 3 springs ago. I can't tell you why but I feel it's worth sharing in return to express some form of gratitude.
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Wartime Cesarean
On the turn of spring, the world seems most finalised for Death. The white blossoms appear more like sprouting moulds over a corpse; the clouds assert their dominance so strongly it’s as though the whole blue sky has become rotten, and the few thin, jagged streaks of golden sunlight that bleed through this unrevivable greyness appear more as though they were scars; as though Death were scarred by the being of Life. Such is Life, which always bleeds, which is born and lives through scarring. Spring announces itself with this very bravery, that though its very existence will cut, hurt and step outside of itself uncomfortably, it nevertheless will live. Spring is born as the world is at its closest to Death, and Death is constantly robbed of its own flourishing. Death is that which is in waiting; waiting for its ultimate fulfilment, waiting for its messiah with the patience of eternity. Life does not wait. Life cuts its way through and into dead, inhospitable worlds.
Wishing you a Happy Nowrouz full of Hope against these bleak times.
Thank you again for writing this. It feels strange to write, but still, wishing you as happy a new year as possible in these conditions.
I found something in my scattered journals earlier this morning I must have wrote 2 or 3 springs ago. I can't tell you why but I feel it's worth sharing in return to express some form of gratitude.
---
Wartime Cesarean
On the turn of spring, the world seems most finalised for Death. The white blossoms appear more like sprouting moulds over a corpse; the clouds assert their dominance so strongly it’s as though the whole blue sky has become rotten, and the few thin, jagged streaks of golden sunlight that bleed through this unrevivable greyness appear more as though they were scars; as though Death were scarred by the being of Life. Such is Life, which always bleeds, which is born and lives through scarring. Spring announces itself with this very bravery, that though its very existence will cut, hurt and step outside of itself uncomfortably, it nevertheless will live. Spring is born as the world is at its closest to Death, and Death is constantly robbed of its own flourishing. Death is that which is in waiting; waiting for its ultimate fulfilment, waiting for its messiah with the patience of eternity. Life does not wait. Life cuts its way through and into dead, inhospitable worlds.
---
Nowruz Pirooz
Thank you for sharing. To brighter days.