How that bird bent the air beneath it, moving so quickly from stillness to flight. How the leaf gained weight falling so far, so slowly. How bright the sky bled, dawn arising out of the thin disguise of night. It is all too much, though there is never enough. It is all too much, staying up this early having given up on late.
Bones cry their petty outrages against muscle, fat, and flesh. The aches of work blending with the pain of the inert, mind and body united in their constant complaint and dissent. So it goes with most uprisings, things have to get a little better before their is room enough to break it all down. So it goes, the chicken/ egg nature of itch and scratch.
The dust rises, ionized in the thin tendrils of lofty sun that snake into the unlit room. The dust will settle, trying hard to play along with the seeming trend. Mote to mote, nature is left unsaid. The story of the soul too complicated to explain in words or numbers. Symbols may only stand for symbols, things may only be seen in bits and aspects. The human story is the story of a constant seething at reasonable limits. The human story is tantrum and tantrum, then settling for oblivion in sheafs and herds. Adrift at the edge of some happenstance galaxy, hurtling towards impact and neglect.
This is the story of wept senses. This is the nature of the soul. Not one thing, but a series of collisions. Not differentiated save by the dawdling reach of flesh bound nerve. Scratching out of habit. Speaking out of turn.
So the bird flies, and the leaf falls, and the sun rises again and again. To watch and want, the feed and flow. Words stack in spats and drizzles. Endings begin anew.