0003 Reborn Metaphor

I was born to be a metaphor; Darwin, embarrassed, did not talk of me; I did not fit into his scheme of things; I, knowing secrets of the tears of things, while he used his fine mind (which is, so obviously, beyond the physical) to deny that world, the metaphysical.. To be a metaphor you need to know your place; stay around too long, you lose that vital force; no one believes in the unbelievable – when there’s no mystery, that’s the end of metaphor for man. Better choose a quiet place, some corner of a foreign field only to be found in mind, do the necessary – a few dry leaves and sticks to lay false trail – and the semblance of a nest; you, a place apart.. The desert, then, was easier; Egypt understood; the sun rose warm on the eggshell of pure thought; Greece, appreciative, then found a name for me; a whole race followed in my rise; Rome was, how to put it, unoriginal; America called a dry town, in an arid zone, after me; may yet know me, nested in my cruellest magnificence, ash and twisted steel and concrete, office equipment; I a metaphor, awaiting a new birth.