Kundera writes, (ya, i'm reading it again) "Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love." The Unberarable Lightness of Being.
on one side of the river is a fraying flower/weed. on the other side of the river, rock. the river is invisible. you tell me what this is. it has the potential to be anything, my body and my spirit, my children and i (interchangeable as rock or flower), you, me, life, death. you show me one thing in this world that is not (potentially) a metaphor. it is as though metaphors have blessed mouths, they are that which animate all things! and yet here we are, tiny sacs of being, with the power (?) to assign meaning.
