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I Am Santo

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In her sky, what was this but a cloud enveloping life light? Darkening her clear blue futures with the ugly gray bloom of a past that lingered like hurricane memory, rebuilding and rebuilding but never fully recovering; never calling it a nice day, a fine day, but instead looking at reared wreckage and never seeing progress. Her view obscured, what could happen but to look away? The rip and claw of night held no fear compared to those gathering storms that hid sunshine because would it ever return? Its dip under the horizon brought calm because those maelstroms lost their threat in the dark, the only victims the pin-pricked fates that bled black quiet. Discontent churned and boiled, a caldron of failure to settle, and she just stayed her vision unleashing her own cool wind of reticence and seeing that, yes, the silence brought back the stars, the moon, and her glorious sunlight and blue sky. Yet it never disarmed the front of blossoming rage, the tornado froth that tore her home to shreds and set it on its side so many miles from where she imagined she would land. But she was still intact, still whole. The gales had tossed her about with their empty howl for contentment and she’d dodged such need with the dexterity of an eagle; soaring high above the flailing wild of groaning melancholy that rained over every aspect of her life, seeping into the cracks in her foundation until she moved, giving in, no longer weathering any of it. Regardless of the reason, her endurance was an umbrella turned inside-out and her sky had to find perfect clarity again. The turbulence of the present slid into a past to be forgotten, even as it collapsed into itself, grew to new and towering heights, and then leveled the land she’d so delicately maintained for so long. Stepping away wasn’t her failure, but that of nature. Sometimes it can’t be maintained. Sometimes to rebuild isn’t courage, it’s madness.

(at Kill or be Killed)

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