Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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All lights go out. Whether it’s approaching day mercifully silencing the hum of illumination or simply the filament, the incandescent heart, failing, all lights quit. Quitting. It connotes a decision made, a conclusion reached. If an end is inevitable, maybe giving up is the only control to be exercised. Stick with it and prolong suffering at the hands of fate, destiny, God or whatever fictions keep the nightmares of loneliness, of emptiness, away. Call it, fold the hand, walk away and at least there’s a clean snap, like bone, that can mend and heal. Alas, the heart ain’t bone. The heart is stubborn and flexible, it beats because that’s its job and the days pain-stretch on the hope of maybe, possibly, with any luck. But it’ll stop, see? It’ll quit whether told to or not. The brave keep it going, like a sun hidden behind the sternum, a glowing, fiery, astral carnivore of darkness trying desperately to guide otherwise blind travelers through impossible nights, out of crushing depths. Yet someday even stars die, spew supernova rainbows into the wonder firmerment and gleam like celestial scars, reminders of massive histories, hard-won-and-then-lost loves. Beautiful. A dream of destruction and heavenly yearning sated, but inevitable in conclusion. All lights go out. All fires stop burning. All passions wane. But everything leaves a scar. And those last a long, long time.

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