This Week

water in air

It is quiet now at night, even in the city, roads and voices muted by the mad hush of rain. Rain against pavement is also a sound, but it slips through ears like it does through gutters, spilling over and out and rushing to sea in the way all moments and memories eventually do. But I imagine that tonight even without the rain the world would seem silent, no matter the city or  bustle or subway line. Tonight is made for our quiet.

 
 
 

Onward, to that distant sun

I wish the journey were slower, closer to the perception of movement that comes with gazing out into that inky periphery, watching galaxies flow past us like syrup. I wish years did not instead tumble like a series of waterfalls, each gaining a little more speed from the last.

The peacocks

They remind me of her life, of what she loved and what she taught me to love. They remind me not of her absence, but the indelibility of her presence.

 

Alone

I thought Iceland would be lonely. Doesn’t it seem, after all, like a place built for loneliness? It is a landscape carved by lava and ice. Why shouldn’t hearts and souls be carved by the same?

 
 
 
 
 
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