something wants to be said, then.
of all/this little
the stray cries upon the roof.
the street loses power for 27 minutes.
he takes his life.
crop fields burn,
in (some other) retribution.
are we must to warring?
joyfully participate in the sorrows of the world- Campbell.
another says such buddhism is too wont to death.
a different reading: shared sorrow is perhaps the clearest indication we have that we have not lost our humanity. in the smoggy chaos ad absurdum, this is sure cause for
is it the violent rupture that gifts us liminality in which to truly situate our ‘ness?
everyone who knew him is together in the aftershock.
they turn toward that time a decade ago when he walked passed, smiled and
/we are all strangers baptized to intimacy upon demise.
a rubber mat is placed on the parquetry and the dull blue of dusk pixelates short-sighted vision. a silent prayer gives this practice to his memory. what does it mean to dedicate the sweat and composure of moving limbs and postures to the memory of a man you barely knew? it is these acts of humanity that occur as self-reflexive, embodied affirmations to the living.
a ‘ness of some essential being, counterpointing flesh and bone and thought, with near awareness of the no-time emptiness that Is.
a graze upon the borderlands of dwelling, with a perpetual and focused return to breath. each inhalation lives the question of what it is to exist. each exhalation surrenders to never knowing.
when the power returns, the candle is blown out.
neighbours clear from the courtyard and resume the life they were living
a minor shift
to the turning of things in their order.
sleep is a resolute luxury,
to a body that is,