where rocks rear through white foam I strain to make out what the rapid river says. I have no sense of what the whirling waters feel: joy? blank terror? apprehension? bubbling belief that soon they will achieve nirvana, all desires snuffed out in union with the sea? each pint of river drawn into a glass can be picked out, be pointed at, be reïdentified — but pour it back into the flow, and it is gone. no water’s gone, but that pint’s gone. there’s no “that pint”, in fact, unless the “that” points back into the past — the inaccessible, unalterable, unattainable. I make no contact with the river’s essence, for it’s far too alien for me to understand its constant babble: “here I go!”? …
"What the Waters Feel".
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