|Fotografia de Justin Dingwall|
Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most people? Catastrophe unmitigated. Social revolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyper-exclusively ultra-voluptuous super-palazzo, and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detention-camp swarming with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Most people fancy a guaranteed birth-proof safety suit of non-destructible selflessness.
If most people were to be born twice they’d improbably call it dying — you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough.
We are human beings; for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery, the mystery of growing: which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming.
Life, for eternal us, is now, and now is much to busy being a little more than everything to seem anything, catastrophic included.
… Miracles are to come. With you, I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being (...)
E. E. Cummings