This Strange Something

Perhaps something is creeping around the forest waiting to be seen, felt and heard. A strangeness that comes into everything growing. A dim but distinct luminosity that inheres in all.

Maybe this strange something will eventually lodge itself in stars, stars that swell to dawns that burst forth into fountains of gold, rose and purple where birds sing in hidden gardens behind the perfume of trellised vines. Before long a sleek black cat will rise, yawning, and the change will become apparent to our skin, ears and eyes, prepared for almost anything now, and we won't be surprised when news beyond any mind’s guessing comes in a way which can not be easily told since no one knows for certain where it came from, or where it will go.

Moments of Sleep at Night

Perhaps moments of sleep at night are the distances from star to star, as dreams – expressions of the day’s sight, song and sound – weave themselves together and follow each other like fireflies, as if all of this singing, flying and dancing was a job.

Maybe even as we are made to know little of our dreams, they most certainly know us. All through the day they go where we go, move as we move, and are privy to our innermost thoughts. Over time, as we are constantly dreaming – sometimes with open eyes and sometimes with eyes closed – we become as dreams ourselves, vanishing as if dust into a mounting wind, leaving behind no trail. Where can we go to find ourselves again? Such things cannot be easily spoken of.

Resisting Intelligence

Perhaps we are engaged in an endless war that never feels like a war. As our torturers turn affectionate, offering us free Vitamin Water, they whisper, there’s no chance of getting out of this, but we admire your willpower to remain as swollen doors that require strong shoulders to push them open, we really do.

Maybe, as roped and shackled prisoners sweating and suffering, often out of breath, we have cried out every name we can think of to describe that living part of us that has gradually slipped away to the cemetery in an effort to throw them off. Part still-formed twin of the very garden that founded us, we resist becoming the blank glare of a square luminous flux without shadow, the child’s afternoon without the child.