Toronto has never looked this good for a March Saturday, and I can’t find the words in me to say it better. The sun-blue follows me everywhere and I follow it back; the sun-blue never followed me. Is this what it’s like to live without time? Just the particles, the colours, the infuriating reality of these careful shadows, a solid paint-stroke. Maybe it really is so blue.
Sometimes suddenly, a ray pierces my heart and lends me strength to last a year. The lending period is much shorter, however. A few breaths, or one conversation, enough for a laugh and a glint. …”How do you measure viability?” I ask. “The ability of cells to still reproduce.”
What else to do, after being reminded of all the news that weighs you (us) down, then to remember the sky, and bend your knees to observe the soil around a defrosting tree, rich brown and budding. Maybe somebody else’s prayers are being wrongly gifted to me.
What’s next, what can I do? Cancel first person, stop listening to dissonance, sleep? Really, I’m asking.