Self-Soothing

The drudgery of dawning – sometimes so elegant and enlightening, sometimes belabored and torturous impatience – always the heavy friction of waves.  Of particles as they place and displace in their constant rearrangement, the permanent battle of hope and resignation.  Rising up, coming down.

How I write about disappointments – the very act of writing an urgent inking of the sky, even while it fades or darkens, glares or washes out.

Of rejections – their steady dismissal, the missed sunrise/sunset – a glory of chance forever undone.  Overlooked.  “Wrong place at the wrong time.”

In other words, again.  That waves and particles eons-old rumble and bumble about around and against one another, often contrary impulses and contents dislodging, jockeying, a kind of dance seen from extremely close or far enough away, making out of blue or black a purpled-grey tinged greenish pink and orange; or a bleeding scrape of burgundy’d magenta replete with yellowing sears.

Straining can produce glorious things.

The continuous waffling betwixt bright and ominous, stars glittering through their winky charms, or a saturate void.  White dreaming pale translucence or deeper colors leaking through.  It never stops, the gradients without lines.  So I continue in the way that I flow, waves and particles of me assembling/reassembling and what results is what the friction sparks – disappointments and the hope to write them out.