This is the only dark

This is the only dark place. It is awaking lost and misshapen and not even awake. It is in between. All of the moments that freeze you in disintegrated poses are waystations between some forgotten fall, the failure of live birth, every morning, and the torrent of light, casting enough shadows through the chasms that divide you to make you look whole, but spectral. The breathless scribblings that ink your sleep, that pause time for your body to tremble automatically, write the dawn and day as well. They are never silent. They trace a film between you and the city, between what you want and what will happen. There is either nothing or a solid cloud of light. There is either chaos or a timid tomb. If you are awake, time is not passing. The darkness is immeasurable, you are endless in it, an ineffectual, limp forever. You need the sun to cast a shadow, to put things behind you, to change, to divorce, to co opt, to happen, accidentally, and then forget, and lose yourself, lost again.

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