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.
