It is in the chemistry of the moment, these long chains of ache and sighs. It is that keyboard full of lows and highs, dark bass and bright treble. These worn through shoes tired of walking on water and eggshell-thin ice, tired of the framework and the wood. Chimney smoke and the soaked leavings of sleeping trees, streets lit with the haphazard intensity of holiday cheer. Even in fields where anise and thistle grow, these wayward thoughts of mistletoe. Dawn strikes with lingering seabirds and the lurid fauna of the marsh. Dusk falls minutes away from coyote and caribou I never venture near enough to see. I am too awake not to worry, too tired not to love it all.
The magic is built not so much in the boundaries that the wandering mind broaches, but in the seal that remains unbroken in this peerless focus. You can drug yourself into parody, drink yourself oblivious, and still remain upon the road where you pace and strive. Stupefied long enough, you might see yourself clearly, without apology or deceit. The crimes of passivity, the sins of commitment, the lies of omission and wish fulfillment all there, bright and untroubled. The scars, the wounds, the blanket of hubris and heresy-- the itch at long last home to roost. The strength that arises from digging all those shallow graves still surprises.
I slog through the remnants of this latest storm, walking too quickly through mud and shit and detritus, letting the long grass paint its portions of water upon ankle and shoe. Letting the weather leaves welts and soak through clothes. I parse the stars still visible between my coiling breath and the faint smattering of clouds drifting above, looking just long enough to catch that hint of sparkle, that vast conspiracy of shine. It might be that my blood has infused a will with-in me towards ruin. It is likely that all the obligations of inheritance have been wasted upon me. Beauty costs this much, and more. The dedication to distance, the need to arrive very early or far too late. I carry all these blessings bound as a burden, the borderline set as definition only good for obfuscation. Everything I say meant in opposition, everything I see so painfully clear. Culture works on a molecular level, crafting the story even after ever after ends.