Exact sciences look down on language, whose imprecise nature feels hollow and superficial compared to the pristine perfection of mathematical rules.

It is exactly that evasive nature that makes it so valuable; it is the layering of meaning and the ability to turn a phrase into its opposite in one change of tone that endows it with magic and it is its slippery quality that makes it so addictive.

There is a hard object underneath the gooey surface which spills through your fingers and turns into nothing the moment you focus on it, and that hard object is so evident to people they don’t think of questioning its existence, they can feel it in a visceral way, but not in a way they can explain, or justify.

An indescribable art.

Music - Dizzy Dissolve by Neon Beach

There is a version of this that held together longer.

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Never had fall been more beautiful, a symphony of warm colors, like a nature’s embrace, and it made her feel loved by a love higher than this world.

Mary made her way sheepishly through the small park, lowering her eyes as she passed the rare visitors, because the fire in them scared people who didn’t understand it.

It had scared her too at first, but not for a long time now.

Their unusual color, a muted glow of embers, echoed the ruby of burning bushes and sugar maples like their color turned with the seasons as well.

She’d been born this way, hair snowy white, her porcelain skin the palest shade of alabaster and eyes of fire.

It’s strange how physical appearance shapes one’s fate: Mary had spent her entire childhood knowing herself to be different from other humans, in ways nobody deemed to acknowledge.

She believed the secret of her arrival to this world had been kept hidden behind a wall of silence by the grown-ups in her life, who tried to convince her she was just like anybody else, a fact one furtive glance in the mirror was enough to contradict.

Her mother kept giving her scientific explanations with complicated terms like amelanism and genetic mutation, but Mary knew in her heart she wasn’t like the rest.

This truth came to her in her dreams and she’d heard it in her heart, that hers was a special destiny, to embrace fire and tame it, like a present day Prometheus, to harness its transformative power.

She walked the earth in silence, with the bearing of a fairy, barely touching the ground, weightless like breath. In that silence she felt her connection to the wind, sun and rain whom she considered her kin more than she did humans, and she had no bitterness about it, because that didn’t make her feel odd, but rare, and powerful, and special.

The shy little girl who secretly believed herself a salamander had grown into a young fire goddess, whose ember gaze made the sugar maples glow brighter in the October light.

She found a bench and sat down in the shade of birch trees. Their bark was still peeling off in the unusually mild fall; nature wanted to give Mary a backdrop worthy of her flaxen tresses. It was still warm in the middle of October, too warm for the cozy sweater she was wearing and whose white glowed even brighter against the silver of her hair.

Those dreams she had dreamt as a child she shared with no one, they were her secret dwelling, her palace, fit for an elemental, a place where she danced free, undaunted by fear, conformity and customs, to a music only she could hear, which seemed to resonate from all around her and from herself as well, fitting her inside reality like a jewel in its setting.

The young woman lifted her eyes to watch the sunlight sift through the golden trees, shielding her vision with her palm and smiling to a passer-by, who, like most people, was so dazzled by their unusual color he forgot the norms of polite society and fell straight into her soul, lost and mesmerized, until his walking companion called his attention back to the real world.

The fire in her eyes mellowed and her smile grew brighter, and she realized she was happy for no reason, other than, maybe, the soft silver of the birch branches and the sunshine that covered them in copper and gold.

Brassy leaves landed at her feet and she watched without thinking as the wind carried them away. She caught a colorful one before it reached the ground and its brilliant copper, amplified by the sunshine, made her feel like she was holding fire in her palm, tamed to purr at the touch of her white fingers like a kitten.

A ray of light flashed in the mirror of a windowpane, and for a moment she saw her own reflection in it, looking back at her like through a veil.

“What are you looking at, Mary?” her grandmother used to ask her when she was little and got lost in her dreamworld, fascinated by its wonders.

All those treasures her sight had uncovered patiently in time were still there in her eyes, an open secret offered to anyone for a price: the audacity not to avert one’s gaze for fear of their fire.

She got lost in thought again, resting her sight on the turning foliage overhead, and another passer-by followed it for a few moments before he asked her what she was looking at, like an echo from her past.

Mary smiled and shook her head no, to let him know she wasn’t looking at anything in particular, and the momentum loosened a red maple leaf which had gotten trapped in her hair.

She smiled and stared into his eyes, and her magic gaze shook him to the core with the uncanny feeling two roses were watching him intently from under a blanket of snow. Something more than human, but still of this world, a part of nature and its equal as well.

“What are you looking at, Mary?” her grandmother’s voice echoed endlessly inside her head.

Clouds. Sunlight. Leaves carried in the wind. Dogs. Pigeons. Birches. Seasons. Life. Cars passing in the distance. Earth. Air. Colors. Nothing.

Sunlight. Air. Nothing.

“I’m looking at nothing.”

And she smiled.

The sentence that survived was: leaves carried in the windBring it back here:https://francisrosenfeld.com/enter-phrase.php

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I walk through the sleeping garden, footsteps muffled by the freshly fallen snow, watching the clean white reflect a rosy and baby blue watercolor sky. Everything is quieter now, a natural silent chamber. There is a delicate softness and peace in this cool pastel surrounding, like a very old photograph, dulled by the passing of time, of things long gone.

Here and there an earthy seed head or a golden plume of grass moves gently with the breeze, and birds sift snow from the tree leaves above looking for shelter. There are no scents, just the unmistakable chill that fills the nostrils and makes them stick.

It almost seems like nature tries to make up for the cold by providing the most spectacular sky displays, the colder, the more colorful. Since today was not exceedingly cold, we are going with soft pastels. The really frigid days are the ones that sing bright orange, red and violet sunsets.

The sleeping stillness of the garden imposes a weird reverence, one almost feels like whispering for no reason. Snow keeps falling gently, quieting my thoughts.

The pages keep what has settled.

The river keeps moving.

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There is always something to distract us, something urgent, usually unpleasant, so I’m going to say this really fast, before I lose your attention: last night I heard the roar of the planet spinning on its axis, the deafening breath of an enormous creature.

I know what you’re going to say, that Earth doesn’t make noise when it travels through space, ok, so its electromagnetic radiation translated to sound if that makes you feel better.

It’s not like my life is going to change tomorrow, I won’t go to bed smarter, stronger or more enlightened, it is unlikely that I’ll solve the world’s problems, or even my own, but I will remember to welcome that strange, loud and raspy breath of Earth into my lungs while I fall asleep.

This story evolved to a different form.

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You’ll be pulled in the wake of the truth future brings

Where the ghost of reality waits in the wings

You’ll be wary and tired of the trouble it weaves,

And you’ll question its timing, and you’ll fail to believe

But as true as it is that you live and you breathe,

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

You will question the standing of unwritten rules

You’ll abide by the past and you’ll feel like a fool

While your life will get cast in a whole different light

And you won’t be excused from the truth that it brought

And whether you protest, you seethe or you doubt,

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

You’ll get mad at the waste that it made of your time

You’ll find people to blame and you’ll sulk, and you’ll whine

And the light will shine brighter in your tired eyes

Revealing realities you can’t deny

And whether you suffer, you run or you lie,

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

You’ll be shamed by the crudeness that’s thrust on your heart

You’ll be naked and scared, have your soul ripped apart

But the truth will be there, universal and hard

It will outlast your life, and your dreams and your pride

And whether you bargained, you feared or you cried

Its ghost will show up in the morning.

If you’ve come this far, this might make sense:

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At the age of nineteen Rachel almost failed her college admission. She was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her, she couldn’t fail at anything, so she passed, barely, and therefore didn’t have to worry about opinions and commentary, and life went on, as usual.

At the age of twenty-six Rachel almost couldn’t find a job. She was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her. By this time they were different people, but she was too distraught to notice. She couldn’t fail at anything, so she got a job, eventually. Not the one she wanted, or even liked, but she did, and therefore didn’t have to worry about opinions and commentary, and life went on, as usual, with the amendment that “the usual” was slightly less enjoyable than before.

At the age of thirty-three Rachel quit said job to spend time with her babies. She was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her. By this time they were, again, different people, but she was too self-conscious to notice. She couldn’t do anything that didn’t fit with the generally agreed upon norms of her social circle, so she moved heaven and earth to go back to work. By now she’d already started realizing that the career she had envisioned was never going to happen, so she did the responsible thing, worked hard and kept her dreams to herself. It was the socially acceptable thing to do, therefore she didn’t have to worry about opinions and commentary, and life went on, as usual, with the amendment that the new usual was one without dreams.

At the age of forty the option of giving up in order to avoid confrontation suddenly became unavailable to Rachel and her life didn’t allow her to coast anymore.

She had to worry about opinions and commentary, was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her and people enthusiastically obliged, dumping the entire backlog of criticism, disapproval and contempt at her feet. By now they were, yet again, different people, and, for a change, she did have the sense to notice.

It finally dawned on Rachel that living on anxious and mortified in order to appease constantly changing groups of people was a very unhealthy lifestyle and definitely not one she could sustain long term. She realized she had things to contribute to the world and her views mattered.

She took a stern look at her life, kept what she liked and ditched what she didn’t, got used to opinions and commentary and published her writing (yes, the one she had carefully stashed in a drawer because she was anxious and mortified of what people would think of her). She started learning things again and cultivated useless but personally rewarding skills. She no longer hesitates to voice her opinion in public and stopped worrying about failure.

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Can you hear us, stranger?

Can you hear us, friend?

The thoughts at your temples,

the love in your heart,

the will to remember,

the capacity to overcome,

the things you will make,

the paths you will take,

your life from outside of yourself?

What’s that you say,

oh, most real one

from the realest of realities?

Of course we are all in your head,

where else would we be?

We’re the dwellers of context and content

Your guests from the meta of real.

And this is where the thought settled.

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If there is one thing left after we’re gone, 
one small thing that matters,
even an echo in a canyon, 
even a faint scent on a breeze,
then we haven’t lived in vain, 
have we?

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Such was the beauty of Cimmy’s garden, and how proud she was of it! It was the most beautiful place on earth, she thought, this walled garden of hers, this heavenly shelter in the middle of existence, this place where everything was flawless.

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