As legends go,
Ponds parturated or protected
by a lady of legends,
are so too sharply echoing calls

as honed by sirens,
as reflections of the earthly,
yet non-mondaine,

along its banks and beaches,
surrounded by hills and treetops
as many mamelons feeding the melancholic,

a lady on a road or rail appeared,
If only momentarily,
who, as that Lady of The Pond,
never sleeps.

Walden Pond
Where thought and transcendance
took form as bodies;
a body of water,
a body of text,

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Hence where a body, too human
laid a body to rest.

War and peace passes
the Lady of the Pond
Whispers of history
and tribal chanting
made this Lady and the Lady-in-Passing, as one;
as The Lady of The Pond

The Lady’s lasting in memory
churning agnostic agitations by embracing baptising or paddling and diving as to butter
from milk, in the Walden Pond.

imagination transitions
Walden Pond, walden pond, a walled-in pond, succulent pond, to the pondering woman wondering by

Wondering as thinking, of today’s unfound treasure, testing her memory and her rekindling, with her mother’s mother’s mother’s land.

To row on Walden Pond, is to peddle Tho-reau, is to meddle with minds, romantically so.

The Lady of The Pond, evolving, revolving the Lady on the Road; dissolving, involving greetings as intertwined; with wavings from the Walden Pond.

-animasuri'17
Beijing, May 22, 2017

Perfection does not allow me to be real, not to be honest. On the other hand imperfection does.

Perfection does not allow me to enjoy the freedom of admitting I was wrong; and how wrong I am!

Perfection does not allow me to improve since either that what is already perfect can’t be. That what is required to be perfect, will never be.

Perfection does not allow me to enjoy the fleeting moments of esthetics of that time in that space and that moment of becoming. I thought as a child one story was a perfect story, now I perceive its shortcomings; soon I might enjoy it again for its potential.

Perfection does not allow for potentials.

Perfection does not allow me to tinker, to reconsider, to reflect, to undo, to redo, to implement the wishes of myself; let alone another.

Perfection is simply imperfect. Perfection is a substandard construct of a warped mind, and this idea here, in itself as well, is an illusion or rather a fixation as much as perfection is.
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Perfection does not allow me to be ethically considerate. It’s simply on or it is not.

Perfection does not allow me to wonder. Perfection is without a doubt perfect since if doubt arose it would not be perfect; I wonder about this though.

Perfection  does not allow me to enjoy my and surely not your idiosyncrasies.

Perfection does not allow me to appreciate to exception to its rule.

Something that does not allow me to become in so many ways, is it perfect?

--animasuri'17
Beijing subway line 10
9 May 2017