There’s often this paresis that follows me most evenings, threatening to overtake my limbs, just after the sky cools in a muddle of grey and the inside of a toasted almond, and then like but almost closing up in the blackness of a pupil.
And as I think of the sheer grandiosity of the vagueness of these particular eves, when even the kindliness of the pines morph to my temperment, mirroring my mortal extremity by shrieking with the wind that runs through their shadows like a wild mare.
This is a valediction of all we have so painstakingly mulled over for the time our little coils of consciousness figured out how to make shaled snails into combustion smoke.
This terrible silence could be a ladder to divinity.
It strings up our hearts like parachutes in a blurry marigold desert storm. It is bothersome, as though we had known all along, this primal distilled silence, and it traps us delicately like a gossamer–we twist, we try to shake it off, but we only become more and more entangled by this joke of the universe.
It’s been there, the entire time. And in all of our seemingly senile petrification, we must tell ourselves, over and over, as the dry plum morn burns in the east:
Don’t be afraid. This is how it was, and will always be.