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Slumbering sentiment of never being able to truly fly

Like a perpetual motion machine, everything’s always entwined when viewed from the summit of this hill we baptized home, when rated with an usual urge for lucidity plus an accessory passion to always ask why even while we know there are no intelligible answers but the skimpy suggestions we rave about at Les Pierres’ kitchen table over dinner.

My thoughts on forgotten footprints the other day as a matter of course morphed into a pressing call to action to finally gather our towering variety of books, ad interim but interminably stored in an amiable acquaintance’s barn when we tried to squeeze our belongings into our tiny novel quarters and I convinced Ivory that aside from the stories we write ourselves we could really make do without, clearly without much conviction considering the newly purchased copies that did cross the threshold since and by admitting those deserved to have their predecessors by their side I promised Ivory to build him a bespoke bookcase in our living room, a commitment issued almost exactly one year ago but only recently actually materialized.

A sentence like the previous one, and probably this one too by the time my current mind is done with it, would have made my prior playwright’s heart keenly ache, as I was then strictly setting my sights on sharp short sentences in plain spoken language, always with an everydayness in its spotlight as to counter life’s many complexities, avidly averse to the dictionary-exaltation I nowadays favor, not as a rule to live by or goal to pursue, but to ultimately explore its direction. I mostly pointed at the alteration of language causing this remarkable twist, but recently noticed that even when I write in Dutch, meandering has become a liberty I allow myself, eager to find out where it will take me.

I realized whilst unpacking them, a grounding activity intensely observed by Young Mec, that Ivory was right in wanting our books back, for they represent the anchors attached to our forever floating curiosity and they prevent its evaporation. I’m sure Mec would much rather be outside to chase our local wood pigeons, but for a moment we shared this slumbering sentiment of never being able to truly fly.

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