Age is a humbling thing. I called my grandmother today and talked to her for a while. Now, as far as I'm concerned, she was an older woman when I was born, and that was 22 years ago. And as I think about it now.... she is 90 years old. 90 years old. We talked on the phone and she was telling me about things that she has that she wants to give me. A organette that she purchased at a World's Fair 50 years ago or so... A book that my great-grandmother took in dictation sometime in the late 19th Century... A history book, no less. What does a history book that was written over a hundred years ago have to say? What is it's take on history?

I've done nothing. I am nothing. I'm, what? 22 years old?! And I think that I have some life experiences or that I have some kind of grasp on the world. I can't remember a real war: my grandmother lived through both World Wars. I can't remeber poverty: she vividly recalls the depression. Grandmama saw the advent of flight and a man land on the moon: I can somewhat recall Challenger.

When I was younger than I am now, I used to think that Grandmama was simply a kindly old lady who was good at the piano, good at cooking, and could tell my Dad what to do. But now, the more I talk to her, even if she weren't an educated woman, her experience would make her stories golden to hear. She has a deeper and more firm grasp of politics, philosophy, relgion, work, pain, family, death, music, morality and love than I could ever hope to study in a book or theorize about over a latte. And it isn't because she studied them (although she has and does constantly), but rather because she has lived them.

Note to self: Spend time with Grandmama while I still can. Learn from that wisdom... or at least learn what wisdom is.

How many thin lines are there that we tread; careful to avoid either one side or the other? And how many of those lines do we tread out of fear. Fear to pick a side and stand by it.

Is it wisdom that makes us tread the line, or is it fear? Is it wise to view both sides before committing to one or the other? But then, does there not come a point where a decision must be made, but the line holds us upon it; frozen statues in the face of being wrong.

Is that distinction between wisdom and terror yet another line?
Which is right?

There are times when the answer seems so clear. Where our gut just tells us something and it seems folly not to plunge head-long. Why, then, are these the decisions we fear making the most? Why do we not trust ourselves? Is the temperance which stays our hand truly a virtue? Why should we deny ourselves that which we crave, that which we know we want? Out of fear?
Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death which brings the total obliteration.

Long let me inhale, deeply, the odour of your hair, into it plunge the whole of my face, like a thirsty man into the water of a spring, and wave it in my fingers like a scented handkerchief, to shake memories into the air.

If you could only know all that I see! all that I feel! all that I hear in your hair! My soul floats upon perfumes as the souls of other men upon music.

Your hair contains an entire dream, full of sails and masts; it contains vast seas whose soft monsoons bear me to delightful climates where space is deeper and bluer, where the atmosphere is perfumed with fruit, with foliage and with human skin.

In the ocean of your hair I am shown brief visions of a port resounding with melancholy songs, of vigorous men of all nations and ships of all shapes outlining their fine and complicated architechtures against an immense sky where eternal heat languidly quivers.

In the caresses of your hair I recover the languor of long hours passed on a divan, in the cabin of a fine ship, rocked by the imperceptible surge of the port, between the flower-pots and the refreshing water-jugs.

In the glowing fire-grate of your hair I inhale the odour of tobacco mingled with opium and sugar; in the night of your hair I see the infinity of tropical azure resplendent; on the downed banks of your hair I inebriate myself with the mingled odours of tar, of musk and of coconut oil.

Long let me bite your heavy, black tresses. When I gnaw your elastic and rebellious hair, it seems to me that I am eating memories.