The light of stars arcs around the sun like a woman’s spine bends beneath her lover’s fingers. I cannot help but imagine a little solar gasp each time it happens. My adoration for this curve in time cannot be replaced by an agony worn like a cloak, disrobed in death, then donned again during some obscure after show for which so many claim to hold the golden ticket.
It is better for me to spend my life studying the way the wind can wear away a footprint in the sand, stirring in me the bliss of not knowing. Better to sit and become a vacant vessel, penetrated and softly scoured by the march of the elements. More than anything, think of the pleasure in it, a million tiny pulses of fusion followed by the mindless scattering of molecules that are moving on to the next rasping tango or chilli pepper waltz.
Funny isn’t it, how easy it is to spend hours wishing for direction, when we are actually never happier than when we are open, spreading over the landscape of our imaginations like the fallout of a collapsed pudding. The collective ooze of our wishes and wonder is simply too fascinating to be regrettable.
Stand with me at the countdown to the firecracker, the one born in nature when the dry heat hits the wall of the coming electrical storm, making the air snap. Suddenly you are the deer hearing the tell-tale branch that signals the hunter’s presence. Yet you do not run, because to flee would mean to miss the show, the grandiose production with countless plots and roles to play. You can play them all in a breath, throw yourself wildly into every scene as you are jostled between certain death and another perfect dawn.
Me, I want to freeze the vista, unlocking one part or another. I want complete stillness but for the grass swaying in the field. Or maybe just the arching glide of a bird of prey, its vision pulled to us with a longing that feels like gravity. I want to feel that longing bend as the bird makes a choice and begins to dive, to start and end again.
Twilight Scrawls by Kirstin Maguire
3 hours ago