Suddenly everything feels afterwards, stoic and inevitable, my eyes ringed with the grease of rumor and complicity, my hands eager to hold any agreeable infatuation that might otherwise slip away. Suddenly it’s evening and the lights up and down the street appear hopeful, even magnanimous, swollen as they are with ancient grievances and souring schemes. The sky, however, appears unwelcoming, and aloof, eager to surrender its indifference to our suffering. Speaking of suffering, the houses—our sober, recalcitrant houses— are swollen with dreams that have grown opaque with age, hoarding as they do truths untranslatable into auspicious beliefs. Meanwhile, our loneliness, upon which so many laws are based, continues to consume everything. Suddenly, regardless of what the gods say, the present remains uninhabitable, the past unforgiving of the harm it’s seen, while the future remains translucent and unambiguous in its desire to elude us. Copyright © 2014 by Philip Schultz. Used with permission of the author. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment