Sentence
It starts.
It starts.
It starts and ends.
It starts and ends, but in between there is a seed.
It starts and ends, but in between there is a seed that sprouts, if given proper attention.
It starts and ends, but in between there is a seed.
It starts and ends, but in between there is a seed that sprouts, if given proper attention.
It starts and ends, but in between there is a seed that sprouts, if given proper attention and cared for in such a way as to foster natural growth. Growth in the sense that it springs forth from a smaller form, a coil of sorts but shrunk down tiny into an imperceptible little pinpoint which spreads and unfurls with breath, width and a soaring voice. Voice, though, can harm and hinder if laid on too thick like so much sugar on a bowl of cereal - the first bite can be sheer joy while the rest remain a bit too sweetened, a kind of sweet that one does not look forward to but one must endure because we are all taught to love sweetness no matter what. What, though, is the sentence without its sugar? Papa wrote in clipped, short, seemingly cryptic sentences -- sentences that seemed on the surface to be pedestrian, sentences that were assumed by most to be simply floating atop a glass still lake like so much flotsam (disparate but held together by the surface tension of the water). The kernels of his, though, are mighty and transparent, but only through certain shafts of shining sunlight can one see the many-sided flurry of prismatic explosions contained in each. A sentence of just 5 words explodes forth from the page invisibly and in a prolonged pop. His sentences are the closed hands of an old man, respectable and worked through. At their very center there are deep carved in lines and a strange sense of fragility despite the fact that they are no doubt calloused, gnarled, and feeble now from a hard life of living. Psalms in the palms. The sentences carry that within them. Beneath, though, beneath that very surface is where the blood and tendons of life are contained amongst the other building materials of a human body, shards of bone, knuckle, cartilage.
And for the seed within the sentence: it grows and sprouts several individual leaves in each direction all before coming to an end with a final point of a period, the seed for the next sentence to grow. A paragraph, then, is an ever-blooming bouquet complete with color, shape and fragrance.
A sentence on paper appears as simply a line of blurred black, fuzzed out on the edges as though it is out of focus. It runs across the expansive whiteness in clustered lumps with tiny gaps of quiet in between; a pause of breath before committing to the next word. The next word? The next word. No, not that one. A blotch of red appears on the paper (The writer blows his nose into a tissue and is shocked to find a dabbled droplet of blood spreading wider amidst the fibers of the paper, growing in circumfrence and reddening the clean white.) One misplaced word, one mistake, one deletion. The right edge of the paper is now serrated with the ends of each line, growing sharper and sharper with each new row of words all until reaching the bottom of the page before coming into full and shining focus. Each sentence lumps atop the last piling meaning onto meaning for more meaning, meaning that the thing makes sense at the end.
The end.
