"All The Beautiful Flowers," by Jimmy Chen via McSweeney's
To close your hands tightly is to be aware of them for once in your life. I made a fist like a dry heart. I was soaking wet.
They got on the train. They were also soaking wet. It was the end of the day, and we were going home to people we were closer to. We would gather around words and fill in patches.
It rained very hard. Our palms got wet, so we made fists. We squished fish brains and carried abalone in our pockets. We kicked sea foam into the air and dodged the spray like a dumb pantomime. We were soaking wet.
I stood there like the opposite of a hug. Everyone passed and left drops of rain on me. I was a vertical mural with biblical scenes made out of drops. The scenes eventually dried and I kept track of each vanishing figure.
The umbrellas were black. With each torrent they collapsed and folded and opened again. They covered the heads of their owners and moved urgently. They were held onto tightly, pulling against the wind, being pulled.
“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know.”—Rene Daumal (via poeticulture)
“As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.”—Henry David Thoreau