First the stars or the patterning of stars in darkness, and then
perhaps someone climbing up a mountain to close the gap. Begins
in dusty foothills, then forest, then high empty tundra and piles
of rock, and at the top to brush at with the hand the spangled
emptiness. But the hand feels nothing, sweeps nothing but the
cold air. The loveliness of blackness for the first time brings
solitude. And then one keeps silence at failure, nurses anger
and shame, swallows the bitter taste.
And so the world becomes another place, and now I must confess to
the many things that I forgot to say, was afraid to say, for
fear, for shame, O ancients and splendid hosts whose words come before and after.
Who have uttered out, one theory goes, what was written in the
gene codes and in the stars' imprints before our speech. And now,
those lucid structures are gantries to my nights, wheeling and reassembling.
And yes the whole career is night, is crafted out of silence.
And so the sentences out there were not unsaid, nor did they blow
away with stellar dust and stellar time. They settled down about
my head, resembling a dome the exact shape of my skull hidden
from others by a flap of skin.
{Mythos of Logos, by Michael Heller}
{Image linked/Photo by levyj413}
