Strange Lights

Golden sunlight on the oak. A blue jay hides a peanut in the flower bed. Cat purring in my lap, one finger pecks out each word. We begin again. Everything is cyclical, even this. Who wants to spiral with me through nature, through life, through work, one word at a time? Who knows?

This time, though, let it be unrestrained. Let the strange lights shine. It is true and that is all that matters. If one hides her strange lights, how will the others find her? How will she do her work if she refuses herself?

The only actual movement is a step towards unveiling, towards shining, quivering naked without your armor. Art is the illusion that tells the truth. There can be no hiding. You can’t spare them the sighs, tears, or darkness. These provide contrast, the negative space from which the star glitters.

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