Walking up to a curtain
Going forth toward meeting is like walking up to a curtain. You see a mere sliver of this one’s life. Perhaps the curtain parts with the breezes and you get more whiffs. You can poke holes to try to catch more, to hear more, to taste. Or you can walk away—those aromas do not call to you, even push you away. The curtain might be fabric, or fog, or forest. The curtain may not move easily. Your timing is off—you look as the curtain closes. Little do either of you know that this is how you appear to your other. Even less obviously, this is how you appear to yourself. I cannot see my own back, whether the hairs there have all turned white. You cannot see your own eyes (for your mirror reverses them); you cannot hear your own voice with fidelity. All we can ever do is poke more holes.
:- Doug.
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