11.07.00 - 04:51:19

i should talk about guilt right now, since it seems the emotion i am most familiar with. as if, yes, everything will be plucked and reformed and...

...yeah.

guilt. the thing is, it's so often justified. i do these things, without cause, really, and i end up wanting nothing more than to crawl beneath the skin of the earth. which is usually the reason that i ended up disappointing in the first place - that instinct to crawl beneath the skin of reality and hide from what i've (theoretically) done or (theoretically) might do.

except when i simply oversleep. which i should know not to do by now.

but then i wake up, full throated guilt still stuck in my maw like some offish bit of fish bone, or rather a swelling sort of balloon of emotion that has been wedged someplace between my gut and my voicebox, and i walk outside.

and the world is sharp and cold, and the stars burn me, for all their distance, burn me with some conviction that stifles thought and station and guilt and place and trouble beneath a well of conviction/recognition/joy/want that remains aching and wordless but nevertheless beautiful.

i adore this time of year, though the swift-falling dark leaves so many people feeling somehow chased and oppressed. For me, the combination of a long sweet evening ahead and the glitter of lights upon the streets at five-thirty, the tumbling from work into some twilight-tinged dark-hungry world womb evokes a euphoric sort of joy.

tonight twilight was all blue, all shifting blue, from the wide and clouded sky to the smooth snaking ribbon of the river to the distant marching receding line of mountains shifting to ever-receding misty-blue oblivion.

someone rather brilliant observed that the joy of poetry was that singular moment of delightful frisson, that moment of razored attention when it rearranges your sense of the world and shoves you into an alien, strange, unexpected but somehow nevertheless right-feeling persepective that seems transportive.

that's twilight. that is twilight, half-way across the river looking down some winding confluence of blued gray or grayed blues so rich and dark they seem intimate, so soft-focused they drag tears to your eyes, glittering with the lights of some ugly factory town made lovely with distance and mystery.

these are the moments when i want to be swallowed and consumed nad remade and transformed by the sheer stuff of the atmosphere when i dream i can -

- almost anything. and maybe transcend the fall from the garden.