Just another twilight post:

There is always something to be made of pain.

-Louise Gluck, "Love Poem"

Dusk found me getting a pedicure at a nail salon. The glass walls let the outdoors in freely, and I saw the sky changing colors. I mumbled "look away, look away," but still found myself stealing glances at the sunset-streaked heavens.

Day #__

somewhere unspeaking sits my life;the grim
clenched mind of me somewhere begins again,

-E.E. Cummings-

Sunday

But only say the word and I shall be healed.

When we are left with nothing, we are not left with nothing.
For at our most forsaken, we are being thrown a cue to remember that there is more to here and now than here and now.

There is always faith.

Peace be with you.

Your absence

brought these lines

into this page.

You are not here.

Beginnings

are wondrous things. A beginning might purport a preceding end, which is a death of sorts. It could be a circling back to something old that had been forgotten, an unearthing (accidental or otherwise) of buried loves, an act of resurrecting, of breathing hope into a previously abandoned dream. It could be a picking up of a scattered life. It could be a fresh start, altogether--one small, but prominent, stroke on a sheet of paper. It could be that sheet of paper, too, clean, white, unscented.

Gravity

The mind and the heart hunger for flight but the feet remain on the ground.

The soul dreams of its displaced darkness.

What's keeping me afloat,

these days, is my capacity to drift by and over and back, that penchant for indifference, that c'est la vie attitude, that shrug, that series of languorous blinks leading to a series of standstills.

What can I do, it does seem to work.

Most of the time.

What about you? What do you do?

These days,

I keep hearing more and more people end their sentences with "or am I just getting old?"

Or am I just getting old?