When a limb is lopped we feel the lack and sense the ghost of it for many years.
Other branches grow, angling away; and so we press-on, within the apical dome,* though part of our potential's dead;
yet maybe it torments us, prevents us, curtails the whole kit and caboodle - systemic infection -
so war may tumble down a soldier's mind.
How it's not, old buddy, is a bubble-car of present, moving on, never looking back, pretending, pretending:
"How tough we are, how tough we are; we're very, very, very tough; how tough we are; we're very tough; how very tough we are!"*
(repeat faster and faster)
while the soprano Diva warbles over-top and cracks the Kaiser's shot-glass at his lip.
That said, let what you will, assist a focus on a growing point and feel the deep uncurling of here / now, the better to continue with a will, hard-hat, gloves, steel-toed boots, et al.
The thorn has burst its buds: green whorls of leaves a-sheen pump-up and harden - so much more slowly than an insect wing.
......................
*not as a Scientific theory, though. :)
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*The growing point of a grass, magnified 300x. I think you can see the apical dome here.
Photo by J.H. Troughton from RHM Langer, 1972. How Grasses Grow. Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd. London.
*rhythm from chorus of Die Fleidermaus Trio :'How sad it is...' See media at top, if you have the love of or patience for Strauss.
