the dear & empty things

I'm here because I have an inordinate amount of homework and not enough time. Of course I'd rather procrastinate by writing a freaking blog post than just make myself start all this work.

Y'all, I'm tired. Deep within my body there's this resignation. This exhaustion of the soul. The breeze that runs its fingers through blades of grass, making the hairs of the earth stand on end; the hollow echo of leaves settling in-between gasps of wind; the golden sheen of disappearing sunlight painting half of everything with momentary effervescence; the vacuum of silence which exists directly in the moments after the sharp humming of cicadas has ceased. These things exist inside me, always. The thrumming of birds' wings in my mind and heart; the soft panic of watching leaves run out of my grasp down a spinning stream; the tightening and tightening of springs just beneath the lattice of my ribs. There's an avalanche inside me, something about the lines swallowing up my mother's eyes, about the overwhelming thread of his voice, about the inadequacies tucked away in my fingertips and need for light. Someday I will pass on, leading these things by the hand into some further light, or darkness as it were. The demise of my frame would not be nearly as tragic as the disappearance of these dear and lovely things.