Friday, July 08, 2005


"The Past's supreme italic," Emily said. And are we slaves to our experience?

Always desperate for something new--always craving the familiar. Wildly longing for a break in the routine--comfortable in the ruts we spend our years digging.

Running in circles, our steps dig trenches. And while we decorate the walls with dreams of flight--visions of departure--we take comfort in the cool.

We might be makers of nests--but even that implies wings.

Focus. A moment is passing.

We glance. We blink. We wince. And soon enough it's all marrow deep.

We long to hold each other--to wring the moment of every vital drop. Standing on a threshold without a step.
And if we hold, and hold, we might melt, and pass into timelessness. Then nothing passes.

And yet, in waking dreams, old friends, even loves--all fly--or turn their face away. So little time has past. A pair of eyes that once looked into mine--or gazed with me into the whatever--close, or stray. Hands that once held--proud or gentle--or that once accompanied my music--go wandering into corners and shadows.

There are birds that fly away on either side of the eyelids. What worldly winds feather them up? I thought they were peices of me.
What music can keep the choreography of human interaction? Pray to loose the pain of separation. The void of missing no one runs deeper.

Sometimes, the sting becomes dull, and we cringe away, or swallow, the pools behind the gazing blank. But this leaves abysses.

We speak of losing souls to Death. Losing them to living is worse.


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