hollow tube
Frans Peter Verheyen
I don’t know. Sometimes is seems the whole world is made of metaphor. Other times the metaphors sicken me.
We can say what the hose is like. We can say it’s curved like a child’s ear. It’s red as a curse. Twisted and bulging as the entrails of a dead horse. Looped like a lariat, the gaucho’s answer to lawn care. Coiled like a snake, the Ouroboros that eats its own tail, bringing us back to where we began. We can say its spiral form is mathematically elegant, beautiful as the perfect shell of the nautilus.
But it’s none of those things. It’s a hose. Just a hose. Accept it as a hose, and nothing more than a hose. Surely, that should be enough. If you acknowledge its beauty, say it’s as beautiful as a hose. And so it is—beautiful as a hose, and as a hose, beautiful.
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