As if we could withstand the curiosity, in fact, this is how it all began, not with fire as men may say. This terraqueous planet describes us, shapes us, prepares our moods, reflects feelings in water with rainy days, and on hot days it seethes to the surface. A love-hate. The odorless, tasteless, colorless, rainbow making substance making up most of what we see, including our own body, its secrets hidden behind surfaces sometimes called skins and in reflections that can be blinding. Tears may escape this wrath, you salivate, you sweat, there are many ways out, but we all know thirst in a more intimate way. Why does the river run or meander? Where is it going so unstoppably. The sea, you say. Yes. I guess these tides too taunt sameness, require membership, seeks its own kind, mutual matters. The tides taunt us relentlessly, love-hate, push-pull-sun-moon, always churn so you know it is breathing, there is life in there, resistance and persistence. Trapped as we may be in our bodies that need, trapped like ants on our hills and screaming about wills that fall on deaf ears, we still climb, we crawl, claiming to know where we are going on our islands by push-pull-time of day-we know ice when we see it, we see cold water steam, hot water vapors, and boil and evaporate and condense and it all boils down to the one scientific question-whose is it, not Prometheus, not ours to steal, it was all part of it, it needed the other matters to matter the most. Water is life always returning to become part of another body, just like we, genetically.
By Moran, Thomas, 1837-1926 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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