Boxes and boxes and boxes.
Every June forever.
The longest day blown apart.
No reflection in a bustling river.
Blotted sky takes its longest to die.
From a seat on the long green bank.
Or a teleporting train threading nowheres.
You have to become so utterly still to make room for the colossal motion.
The quiet pause at the very arc of a year-long swing.
The moment momentum runs out.
And it realises the implications of everything it tore through.
Now that the velocity is abandoned.
The clarity unblurs in every halted direction.
You stop being it.
And suddenly there is room for it.
Good god.
What have I done?
Becoming Breeze
Cycling, right? Biking. Riding a spinning scaffold, becoming a part of the breeze. Floating on captured tubes of that same air, ploughing up speed from the ground. Cracking silently through close space. Becoming narrow. Sharp. Cutting the partitioning rope between path, road, plaza, park, street and field. Slicing on the surface tension of two spinning rubber blades, balancing perfectly.
Sharing breaths with the world, watching. Drifting in its detail. Catching the subtle show.
Cranking the reel, not so tediously easy that our audience walks out, and certainly not so hard that the film burns up and we miss it all. Take it in. It doesn’t cost money and it doesn’t cost time, all it asks is a little attention and some knee-grease. It’s free, and it makes you free. It is the gift of precious headroom, despite somehow also making you taller. You are now 50% beak, a bird flying an inch above ground. Sorely soaring. Alive while you are. Here while you are.
Quit Vision 