Sunday, October 24, 2010

Number Four

The light always goes out.  The breath eventually stops. The body cools; reaching the temperature of surrounding air.

Light and darkness become one.  The breath, in ceasing, becomes one with stillness.  A body finally joins the emptiness, the space between lives.  Every form of stopping, of dying, is a form of joining.  Of  returning.

The light always goes out.  The breath hesitates, quiets. Nothing is clear, nothing is known -- except in its opposite. As wind is defined by the lull between susurrant  bursts, whatever lives is made from the stillness and the dark.

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