The writer tightropes over the abyss of uncertainties, darkness, and ineffable grandeur—with a steadying branch of humility, conviction, trepidation, wonderment—recording the circuitous thoughts, emotions that spiral back to the beginning, middle, and end all simultaneous again. The book she is writing often heavy; the pages can burn fingers or an imagined effigy, martyrdom? No.
Here is the gift she says, the paths dissected for examination. What will you make of all this? Often the sky a lonely place seemingly without border. The sea that crawls back to shore with its menagerie of trinket: varieties of stone, angel shell, carapace, seabird feather, and bone.
If I write all this, will you read? If you read all this, will you write? If you see yourself in all this, will you breathe, panic, rejoice, lie fallen, wake up and tell the others?
There are so many stories, characters, plots and micro-plots, themes and nuances. Will anyone follow such nonlinear lead and bespeak its wisdoms [often ugly, often pure]?
Yes, the writer tightropes the ever-expanding universe, consciousness, history of human and beyond human, looking up with a thirst for sky again, sunlight, noble plan, maybe even meaning or understanding.
These meandering sentences, take them. This odd music of pages disperse. We are alive again it has been said [written]. We will love, bleed, breathe, and become ourselves again. No pity, just reverence. Yes, reverence. This Easter. Reverence for all. This.