(This is in response to Jean's haunting post,In Passing, the Past)
Then if thou art the food of worms. O virgin of the skies,
How great thy use. how great thy blessing; every thing that lives,
Lives not alone, nor for itself -- fear not and I will call
The weak worm from its lowly bed, and thou shalt hear its voice.
-- Wm Blake, The Book of Thel
You cast an indigo shadow on me. I don't know how to say it more precisely than that. If you could see the shadow you cast, you would not worry about useful and useless. You would be overpowered, not by your uselessness and disconnectedness, but by your responsibility and entanglement. Even in just this world, the least of worlds. The shadows cast shadows, falling from screen to screen. You move in my thoughts, and have since first I met you. I have never met you, I suppose, as they reckon things in this world. More fools they.
It is only ever and always love, love disguised as rain on a roof or as wine in a glass. I began thinking to comfort you, but it was not long before I saw through that. It's I that needed comfort, and took it, sheltering under the strength that you don't believe in, huddling into that blue shadow. And my shadow huddles under your shadow's shadow, and so on -- do you see, yet? It doesn't matter at all, and it matters terribly. The shadows are more real than what casts them. You know that -- I know you know that.