Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Yet I Hunger


Honestly this is what the sunset looked like tonight in Phoenix during my bike commute

I didn't run, and I didn't see, but in between the sun and me, I caught myself accounting for this particular day, held it up, turned it round, remembered that I never imagined what I found. What passes for normal amazes me if I think it over. What casual technology and connections were at my beck and call feel like science fiction to remembered me. I'm surrounded, enwrapped, supported, and enfolded, yet still I hunger. To ride downtown and be among a merry band of cyclists. Tonight's sunset crushed me, then poofed me away like a handful of dandelion pappus.

Warm winds bore aloft my feathery fragments through the neighborhood, dispersed and scattered, and what remained of me was hunger-fibers (dry, white and gray) illuminated by these crimson rays of setting sun. 

This message I send back to remembered me, who as I recall wondered if this would be so, at this point in life: it is so. I am not sated. Instead look up, and see me, that fluffy, floating, seeking wisp, rising against the incandescent clouds. These seeds won't be held, they warp out of this space, growling in their hungry, tiny voices, you promised we would grow.


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