09-11-2018, 08:24 PM
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom.
- - - -
The glacier sleeps, and when it wakes it does not forget itself.
But she is the ocean, not the glacier atop it, and some days it feels she has forgotten herself. Today is one of those days.
"North," she thinks, she remembers-- "your name is North."
One thing she has not forgotten: she never much liked sunrises. She never much liked dramatic things in general. This one is isn't too bad, though. There is no promise to it. No pompous blazing horizon, no sky on fire, just a simple, humble brightening of the world. Less a declaration and more a gentle shift from one day to the next, more like the way a new day should be-- indistinct and unremarkable. Slipping into existence so easily that one rolls into the next into the next until you open your eyes, one morning, and the world is hard to recognize.
Hard but not impossible.
The mare, at once familiar and unfamiliar, stands on the ambling and dusty deer trail that courses through the Field. She knows this place, she remembers how she dreaded it once. How long ago was that? Years? Decades? She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. This too she remembers, as she inhales: she always loved winter. The smell of it, the feel of it, cold and sharp as steel. Maybe love is not the right word, but she's older now than she used to be. More generous.
She takes her time, slowly remembering herself as the last glow of sunrise fades, unremarkably, from the sky. She remembers her patience. She remembers loving a king. She remembers the ocean. The ocean! There are so many things to remember, and remembering is how she passes the time as she waits for fate to catch up to her, down the crooked deer trail.
- - - - -
By morning, I had vanished at least a dozen times
N O R T H
Into something better
grappling with a luminous doom.
- - - -
The glacier sleeps, and when it wakes it does not forget itself.
But she is the ocean, not the glacier atop it, and some days it feels she has forgotten herself. Today is one of those days.
"North," she thinks, she remembers-- "your name is North."
One thing she has not forgotten: she never much liked sunrises. She never much liked dramatic things in general. This one is isn't too bad, though. There is no promise to it. No pompous blazing horizon, no sky on fire, just a simple, humble brightening of the world. Less a declaration and more a gentle shift from one day to the next, more like the way a new day should be-- indistinct and unremarkable. Slipping into existence so easily that one rolls into the next into the next until you open your eyes, one morning, and the world is hard to recognize.
Hard but not impossible.
The mare, at once familiar and unfamiliar, stands on the ambling and dusty deer trail that courses through the Field. She knows this place, she remembers how she dreaded it once. How long ago was that? Years? Decades? She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply. This too she remembers, as she inhales: she always loved winter. The smell of it, the feel of it, cold and sharp as steel. Maybe love is not the right word, but she's older now than she used to be. More generous.
She takes her time, slowly remembering herself as the last glow of sunrise fades, unremarkably, from the sky. She remembers her patience. She remembers loving a king. She remembers the ocean. The ocean! There are so many things to remember, and remembering is how she passes the time as she waits for fate to catch up to her, down the crooked deer trail.
- - - - -
By morning, I had vanished at least a dozen times
N O R T H
Into something better
open to any!