Gray compounds gray: the air, the sky, the blank slate cement and the gathering of shadows. Walls painted the color of wan abandon, floor clotted with these collapsed notions and murdered ghosts. Cold air settling in these small gaps between walls, cold flesh closing its hands around these remainders of blood and bones. The silt-laden light spills in through open blinds, drowning any dream that fled from sleep, following me.
Always odd to feel the wires upon somebody else's holiday, all the weight of hope and heart dashed against natures cages. All the profound mechanics of some magical cosmos wound in congress with some human machines, the year ticking away, familiar and comfortable. This cave was empty to begin with; no pointing angel can make that a miracle. The promised land is Disneyland with hellfire and partisan gunfire; I will stick with the wilderness, thanks just the same. So here I am lit uncertain, the spill of vague light, the shine of this computer screen. Sometimes lost feels so much better than what there is left to find.
This is that usual sentiment. Awaiting the rain, watching the rain when it falls, living in the remote moments. Wandering to the fields that are left fallow, companion to the atmosphere and the gleaning flocks. Settling down with the strays and the outcasts, finding new ways to be alone. Listening to the chorus of silent multitudes as they weave this world into being, insect and chordate and arachnid, the unfathomable legions of bacteria and fungus singing in joy and hunger. Deaf to the sermons of the holy and the saved, I listen to the rest. Awaiting whatever salvation or inspiration they deem redemptive, while for me, waiting for the rain is enough.
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