| How time slowed when any thought or apprehension of the next instant vanished (no obligation, then or later), how in that long moment, all at once, yet without surprise, how what was close was present in a sudden suspense, as such things rarely exist as they did then, each apart from all, seen as it might be truly, and gave way to a pleasure that had long been missing, to expleasure, as if I were akin to the smallest things—ribs of a leaf, penny on a dresser— of a saving stillness, doubtless always here, just beyond the scrim of what calls us from that silent astonishment, the more so since the feeling dissolves with its presence of detail merging with a distant seeing, as when I walk through a room and nothing is equal there to the calm from the simply seen. Copyright © 2015 by James Brasfield. Used with permission of the author. |
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