If you ever need me or my words, we’re both here for you. Always. Please don’t hesitate to message me.
And I forget what the sky looks like. There’s always a period where solid recluse is absolutely necessary. Air becomes secondary while I am freely split into a dual universe of literary parallels. Diaphane & adiaphane. Truth & fantasy. I am & I am not.
Sunlight had traveled millions of miles to hit the surface of my skin but was always eight minutes too late—though, I’m jealous because Sunlight had taken a longer journey than I’d ever in a lifetime, yet I’m flattered because Sunlight had taken that journey to be with me. I am & I am not. The reality is that there is no relationship in that. As much as I’d want there to be, there is nothing because selflessness could never mask jealousy. Fantasy.
So I become reclusive for a period of time. Why? To find some new truth.
Words are bruised onto paper in black & blue.
And I forget what the sky looks like.
The darkness of my room begins to strain my eyes—I am upset because it hurts to see, yet I am gracious because the bruises I’ve given this delicate sheet of paper are now illegible. There is no relationship in that. Gratuity never overlooks hurt. Truth.
Once that realization falls into my mind, the period, like any literary period, ends, but leaves traces of itself in periods to come—demure when reminding, as not to brag.
These parallels become cosmically incomprehensible in a prolonged darkness, abusive in its illegibility. The longer I am in the dark, the more bruised the paper becomes, the more I forget what the sky looks like. There is no relationship in that. The truth is always illegible in the dark, & the sky needs the truth.
In my recluse, my solid recluse, I learn that as bruised as the paper becomes in the dark, the light always reveals the legible lesson with a delicacy & beauty entwined with each black & blue truth.
There are words. There is Sunlight. There is truth. And I remember.
Charity shops or mom.