Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent birth, but poor validity, Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the trees But fall unshaken when they mellow be.

Little hard yellow fruit on the branch waits to ripen.
It doesn’t know what it is yet.
Could be sweet. Could be sour.
It could have a rind or not.
Whatever we decide it is now, that is a guess.
It makes me think about the entelechy – the acorn that is always essentially acorn but has that within that is destined to be a tree. And when the conditions are right, it can be as easy as fruit falling off a tree.
Time will shake us all from our trees eventually.

I guess I can see why this passage is usually cut out. It sure feels like a whole lot of stalling.


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