Do you feel it between your fingers?
The exquisiteness of life, stretched out before us in ripples, in an endless cascade of creases and folds, tumbling, one into the next. Life's abounding… is-ness as they say, for the lack of a more elegant expression. How dimensional it is; not in a physical sense, but in the variety of ways by which it can be measured, considered.
We live a textured existence. Bradbury writes, in Fahrenheit 451:
Do you know why books such as this are so important? Because they have quality. And what does the word quality mean? To me it means texture. This book has pores. It has features. This book can go under the microscope. You’d find life under the glass, streaming past in infinite profusion.
Life is details, whether captured in words, colours, or lines. Detail upon detail, wonder upon wonder. If a stage, how elaborate the production! How expansive each set, how intricate every act. A needless display, some might even call it indulgent. But somehow -
There is so much, there is not enough, there is so little
Kundera's singular phrase "The Unbearable Lightness Of Being" captures, in one breath, this absurdity: The immense weight of the human experience in all its intensity (the pleasure, the pain) rests entirely on the fragile scaffolding of a scant existence.
How does anything hold?