a willingness to lose oneself entirely: in the recursive folding of thoughts, the meticulous distillation of sensation, the countless revisions of an idea until it glows not with its light but with the light of every element it once contained. This labour is invisible; it appears as aimless meditation, or a kind of idleness, but…

is not in the lines, but in the spaces between, the negative shaped by the positive, the hush that follows a note. To draw out those silenced harmonics, to give voice to the occluded, requires a patience that can border on obsession or, perhaps, sanctity… © KD.W.Heim

and forgotten? Who remains, when the theatre of recollection is shuttered for the night, and even the actors have stepped out into the cold, blank street? Reason stirs, a faint echo, but cannot quite attach to the world as before. The body breathes, the blood moves, colour, sound and scent arrive unheralded, but the mind…

by memories or thoughts, a gaze that falls upon the world as if for the first time, unmediated by the sediment of experience, free from the slow accumulation of disappointment or delight. The tree is itself, not an archetype. The sky is an utter blue, not a repository for longing, not a vault for prayers.…

not as a solitary engine of consciousness but as a node in the great, breathing weave, a self that is beautiful precisely because it is never finished, always being rewritten by wind, by hunger, by other selves brushing past… © KD.W.Heim

a sign, or a loud thunderclap of meaning, but as a pulse, a faint shimmer on the edge of understanding, more like how a window sees the weather or a river sees stones. One perceives life’s truths, not as revelations but as slow, uncoiling recognition that aligns with presence; witness the world’s beauty, its boundless…

the hollowness that receives the world’s noise, the resonance chamber for all its discord and harmony; in this state one is neither the observer nor the observed, rather the event itself… © KD.W.Heim 

so often imagined as a fortress or container, dissolve into the breeze, the slow drift of pollen, the immense and ceaseless exchange between leaf and sun, a porous membrane between all things, the place where substance and possibility meet, where life’s exhalations pass through me as if through a wind swept corridor in the heart…

when i am open and emptied, when i stands at the edge of my own being, stripped of every foregone conclusion, every wish to understand or shape what comes. It is not a negation or an absence, but a fullness that cannot be owned or directed, a readiness that is its own invitation. When i…

and  now is always running away. The heart betrays the intellect;  what else, after all, is a heart for? the real face, the unrepeatable truth,  lives underneath all the costume changes, the script revisions, the sweetened versions  of the one and only… © KD.W.Heim