Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Some people don't know how to be quite

Death: some season for it.

Somehow more graceful than the others, where it can be unexpected, even impolite. To die in the summer is grotesque, even rude. Many things can be forgiven, except perhaps a lack of response to beauty, or the expression of kindness, or the capacity for humor. Each is recommended, perhaps even needed. Too much of any and the sufferer drowns, each a white whale of its own making.

The petite days, and lengthy nights, longing for love, the urgent primacy that accompanies loving. Short-lived battles against and for eternity. Awaking again in darkness, seeking the body next. Seeking near, or nearer, or on, then into and through a ghost. These bodies falling, fumbling together in wakefulness, somewhere amidst the purpose of uniting - exhausting efforts at their best, and worst. This thing that supposedly lasts. Duplicity invites the easiest of recurrences. The body rests, telling of the many things that none wish nor want nor need to know. As the body does, the body knows. The body does, so it goes. 

Then again, mornings, where life and death are oftenest confronted. Evenings are easy, anybody can do a few of them. Any fool can die at night. Nights should be reserved for love, for quiet.

As if….

Two things will often find a way of being together. It is the nature of things.

Of this, just love and silence.