Becoming clearer and clearer, emptying out, all of the impurities flowing out of him so he could become clear, so that the light could flow through, and if he had time enough he could have preached on this, he could have sermonized: Not bad, he would begin. This is not bad at all.
Running is flying. When you walk, one foot is always on the ground. When you run, most of the time you are actually airborne. For example: A 6-foot-tall runner with feet about 1 foot long was found to take 1,250 steps while running 8-minute miles. Thus, while covering 1 mile—5,280 feet—he was in touch with the ground for 1,250 feet and airborne for 4,030 feet. Put another way, he was in the air for 76% of the time. So don’t think of it as a 10-mile run. Think of it as 7 miles of flying.
i list my irrational fears and 23 of them are ‘my ceiling fan will fall and crush my head’. i ask my hands to be statues and they appear outraged. i read an article that said, “in a moment of fear, ask yourself, what AGE does this remind me of?” i am 8 tiptoeing through the kitchen i am 10 running away i am 12 hiding under a car i am 14 forgetting to exhale i am 16 choking at a party i am 18 disgustingly naive i am 20 pouring kerosene on my father i am 22 dislocating my voice box. happy place, happy place: i am an imaginary country, an invented topography. i am my mother’s rose bushes, i am jumping over the fence, i am swinging off palm tree branches. i am body parts attached to consciousness, all my memories distilled by a flight response. maybe nostalgia minus fear is supposed to be blurry.
( chelsea moon, escape in any language is better than this )
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
Sometimes there are no words to help one’s courage. Sometimes you just have to jump. When a life is too controlled, there becomes less and less life to control.
I hope that in the future they invent a small golden light that follows you everywhere and when something is about to end, it shines brightly so you know it’s about to end. And if you’re never going to see someone again, it’ll shine brightly and both of you can be polite and say, “It was nice to have you in my life while I did, good luck with everything that happens after now.” And maybe if you’re never going to eat at the same restaurant again, it’ll shine and you can order everything off the menu you’ve never tried. Maybe, if someone’s about to buy your car, the light will shine and you can take it for one last spin. Maybe, if you’re with a group of friends who’ll never be together again, all your lights will shine at the same time and you’ll know, and then you can hold each other and whisper, “This was so good. Oh my God, this was so good.”
( iain thomas, the light that shines when things end )
The next day arrives. You worry. You recall the archive. Your body again goes restless. The safety of having just experienced trauma fades and you are again imbued with the fear of the possibility of experiencing trauma.
You’ve cut the word sick, and its synonyms, from your vocabulary.
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( it, stephen king / it, 2017 / sharp objects, 2018 / alice notley, culture of one / carrie, 1976 / care and abuse, danielle ola / succession, 2019 )
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