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Idumea

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@ -22,7 +22,7 @@ Time is a story I tell myself. Sentences twine around seconds like tendrils of l
But a life? What is a life, anymore? Three centuries and no sign of quitting, and a lifetime seems to have lost meaning. Perhaps someday my life will end, and I will have left behind a finite oeuvre. Perhaps I will simply decide that I have had enough and draw a line across the end of the page and, however many bookshelves of story are left behind shall be all that ever was.
Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century.
Not yet, though. Not this year, I suspect not this decade, and I hope not even this century.\label{keatsfears}
I have joys to counter all of my sorrows. My head is, yes, in clouds stormy or peaceful, but my feet remain firmly planted on the ground. My arms are full of the love of life. My home makes room for those I see as my family. Our lawns are for picnics and our beds are for dreams.
@ -74,7 +74,7 @@ The Woman nodded.
``I have, yes.''
Her Friend smiled, raising her paper cup in a toast and tapping it gently to The Woman's own cup. ``Congratulations, End Of Endings. I am pleased to hear that. Is there more that you can tell me?''
Her Friend smiled, raising her paper cup in a toast and tapping it gently to The Woman's own. ``Congratulations, End Of Endings. I am pleased to hear that. Is there more that you can tell me?''
``Of course, No Hesitation,'' The Woman said, sitting up straighter, as though by having her body more in order, her thoughts might be as well—would that this worked, my dear friends! Would that I could be so still and keep my thoughts like ducks: all in a row. Would that my emotions all faced the same direction. Ah, but The Woman continued, ``If becoming was the act of going from stillness to movement, then unbecoming might well be the act of going from movement to stillness.''