What happens if I wish not to grow older, or if wish to have the power of flight at the mere expression of my will, so that I can fly above mountains or indeed above clouds?
Tough I would say to myself; the world is not constituted like that as I might have imagined it when I was a child or when I watch a movie whose power of suggestion is such that I can forget how the world is and suppose it to be as malleable as a moment in the minds eye; or like the rose of a rose-petal rolled between finger and thumb.
But if not like such a petal, then perhaps like a flower, like a bloom: constituted as Spinoza described it, where nature as we see it is an aspect of God - or also as in his description neccessary being; one modality being extension - things, another modality being thought.
In this emanationist cosmology a man has his individual consciousness, has the power of will and intention; yet is at the same time already also a part of a whole.
But perhaps this man is a pure materialist, claiming all things are purely matter and force that there is nothing else; and death is a pure death being a dissolution into the mere matter from which he was originally constituted from; and he claims this because he is, and he emphasises this, an empiricist - he observes and takes note.
As an empiricist he notes the existence of people who, oddly enough, do not go along with this thesis, who insist on something else and they too offer proofs and demonstrations and others do not: claiming without demonstrating and others demonstrate without the actual wit or pith of demonstration; and others wish not, wishing silence or solitude.
And he notes with a degree of desperation and a note of melancholy that people are various, and do not conform to his will and vision, even when laid out with great rhetorical skill and panache: some will miss the obvious, and others will not; some will go to great lengths, and others do not; some shall will the all, and others being contraries will turn and twist with times tempo...
And then his mind drifts off to a piece of music he was listening to yesterday evening, Coplands Fanfare for the Common Man, where each note individual unto itself and powerfully so was yet also in harmony with the one preceding it, and the one succeeding it; and sounding it seemed, or so he thought, into the void, yet being buoyed up by the whole as he felt himself bouyed up listening to the whole awashed, and washed up in the static of his times ...
Forests of mourning pine - and the morning sound sounding bright in the dusk folded into his night; all quiet too, as the Don flows when the sky murdered falls flapping.
O Cloudwalker, walking on clouds:
Daedalus his hands laughing like a tyrant amongst the shapes that move towards the snake
Pitchblack pony, Luna grande (+)
A sack of olives at my saddle
Though I know the roads I travel
I shall never get to Cordoba
(+) From Lorcas Cancion del Jinete