by Christos Polydorou
Wisdom is as endless as the branches of the trees in England, which are nouns uncountable.
Where is wisdom, however?
Wisdom is where we (I, you, he, she, singular) end and where we (we, you, they, plural) begin. Where the individual ends and the collective begins. Where what is said is true, of all of us.
Writers have been known to be particularly, almost, uncannily, wise. How is it that a man or a woman typing at a laptop in a room in another country on the other side of the world knows exactly what it is that torments me? Who dares speak what I dare not confide in anyone? Who not only remakes it, by writing about it, from a taboo into something worth celebrating?
There is a well, we share.
What is the quality of wisdom? The quality of wisdom is light. It is where the plural shadows end and the singular light begins.
Absolve your ego within the emblazonment of its presence.
Dissolve your pride in the power of its grace.
End your sloth at the generosity of its recurrence.
Swim freely within it and forget gravity was something that held down not only your body but everything connected to the body.
Love is not love until you have quenched your thirst at its mercy.