Sojourn

He's in self-isolation keeping company a rooftop crow reminding him a wiser authority is still at work! No sense of distance within four walls sickroom alien, where dawn comes early and long night falls. He's lost track of time, the pilgrim soul in him finds no harbor to anchor, plays monopoly with his mind, thinking of Galileo: “the larger the machine, the greater its weakness.” Conjures a theory of “Chinese virus” as spirit wrapped in embryo waiting for the opportune moment to rule the world, a living locked in its own order by the magnitude of its destruction, clearly one cannot grant an invisible giant the same proportion of limbs as an ordinary enemy. Push up, stretch, and climbing up and down the stairs, he calculates the rate of death as the speed by which life is saved, it's always good to spin the positive, and he thinks of the virus as a snow emergency using old shovels to deal with it, or a bowline knot that comes untied with ease on a fisherman's boat in wild, boisterous ocean, and then his mind conjures the word “cross-mutation,” readaptation of an idea from one artifact to another, now wondering if the virus has come from outer orbits or is a cell phone disease, or the tree of life re-enacting an old theme, full of words such as tension, compression, torsion, shear, bending, and destruction, but then again he thinks of it as a material form, in need of cutting, hammering, grasping, scraping, splitting, piercing, re-shaping, and measuring. And time passes and suddenly, he is in company with god, that drops by late hours to check up on him, reminding him with genuine equanimity, nature is capable of designing traces of extraordinary polarization. We are on sojourn myself and I, breaking the monopoly of his mind.