strange how life proceeds in chunks
of time, in blobs
in maple-sap slowness though winter sun burns down the day.
i’m not moving fast or slow. i’m not sure i move at all.
but here i am so distant from the where i was before.
Author: The Voice from Nowhere
January 7
hard to grow up in stagnation, hard to breathe through strangulation but the currents bash us on the rocks and air feeds the conflagration. tempting to fear change and abhor it cower, believe there’s nothing for it but things static can't get better, there’s no way out if you ignore it. all things were meant for motion dead hearts can’t pay for your devotion we’ll never have what used to be, for all your indignant brash commotion. give up the power bought with chains, defund the price you set on pain let the future come in dancing before nothing beside remains.
January 6
i want a name for this absence that i knew was coming, yet dislike in these moments where i realize i was not as ready as i thought. i want a name for it, to introduce myself and then ask it to come in. we can share a cup of tea together quietly.
January 5
i am so tired of the cold, sick of loneliness that chills. i want to jump into a fire that loves me enough i do not burn. (a sign of lonely winters, that I dream that such a thing exists.)
January 4
we stood together on a street corner and waited for the fall of rome with bread in our hands, both tearing off bite by melancholy bite. you said ‘i think i see it coming. there’s something in the air, like dust that isn’t there yet.’ i looked for it. saw nothing. you were crying when i turned, quiet. soft and slow, like you didn’t mean to do it. that was years ago, and rome still stands, a few more pieces missing. lots more added on. and i am on a different dusty street corner alone. i miss the taste of bread.
January 3
I think I keep falling in love with the sun, or people who shine like it does in my dreams. I want to be warm. I want to see life in shadings of light that pulls sharp at the seams. I want to think I can love with joy running rife, rich and abundant and shining undone. But I never have burned from the sun in my dreams, or been eaten with heat that compelled me to run.
January 2
something has been settled, unfinished tension turning whole, a long ongoing dance brought to completion. but in its wake there comes a doubt— what happens next? what new start must be brought awake to life? what else can be said in silence when the chance to change is done?
January 1
I don’t believe that malice is inherent in the world—
the ocean washes shells ashore to die, without disdain.
I do think the miraculous is proven by our lives,
by the ways we build up meaning from overlapping joys.
So here we are. The sun is up, and shining on the waves,
in a frequency of light that is attractive to our eyes,
and we are here to see it and remember breaking noise,
remember and bear witness to the ways the world unfurls.
December 31
-what will the music sound like? -like coming home. like tragedy. -i hear tragedy already, every time i fall asleep. -it sounds like tragedy in story, like someone else’s pain, like it hollowed out the ache and turned it to a drum. -what kind of drum beats tragedy? -your heart. just as does mine.
December 30
what price is set on pleasure where I cannot see it stack? is there some suffering i must endure in days to come for this— these stolen joyful moments. is there some great bill coming due? can i have happiness that does not merit a balancing of grief? (is there a point to asking questions when i fear to know the truth)