Waiting for time to pass, for time to end, for time to consume itself as it always has. Waiting for the sky to fall, for the horizon to fold in on itself, or to fail in pursuit of its own grandiose ambition. But, waiting to begin again as well, to renew the magic of the eternal, and infernal, mystery. It can always go either way, or so they say.
Life holds a fragrant bouquet of esoteric belief for all of us to move through (like a bee in the garden), to ascend to, to attempt to understand. Like branches on the trunk of a tree, I cling to what I grew from. I come from where I came from, and I stay where I belong. My song is really no different from yours, a different voice, but the same refrain. The same sound, but a different source; you play brass, and I play wood, arranging notes in patterns heard, but not yet really understood.
We swim in the same swamp, and in pristine mountain water. We live in the same world, and carefully cultivate our own shrinking, or expanding, sphere of influence. We own the same things, but to varying degrees. We loathe a common indignity, and love the same flattery. We serve the same master, and suffer the same remorse. In the course of our lives we stand and fall, we succeed and fail, and we reject the standards of unwelcome imposition, no matter the puppeteer, no matter the color of his once very luminous hair. We get too near the heat at times and run screaming from the kitchen to hide in the basement beneath a rumpled bed. Nothing’s ever really left unsaid these days, except the diminishing truth of our own disheveled lives.