Oxford

possessed by light

It bears saying that, in the dead of the night as D is washing up the dishes in the kitchen after making me a sunny-side up egg and himself an avocado-garlic omelette (I know), I am struck by a humbling and whispery sense of gratitude, for everything that has transpired in the past week, month, term. The childish side of me wants to tug fervently at the reins of time to slow its inexorable canter into entropy, but the threat of transience is the very heat behind this emotion welling up (that I cannot name, for the life of me), and I am not sure I want to lose that.

No, I am sure I don’t want to lose that. Last night ended with a trembling so rapturous it felt like the whole world was shaking apart. Beyond that was the understatement of rain. Beyond that, the siren call of possibility so taut it almost hurt. In the evening today, I shook myself awake from a nightmare that was so casual in its … vehemence it left me clammy.

A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river
                        but then he’s still left
with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away
                                                      but then he’s still left with his hands.

(boot theory, richard silken)

Also: if you (dear reader) leave me your address one way or another, I’ll write you a Christmas card.

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