Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Nothing’s the same. The sky runs below, and cirrus worry stretches thin over cumulonimbus climbs threatening deluge and destruction, their fierceness and fury an echo of this lovers’ hell. The world’s grown concave, perception’s edges pulled in around the infinity of space leaking from a blown open center. Travel peels away hours, unfeeling periphery pushing a blurred canvas on repeat; the whole damn thing looping with a brand of indifference that isn’t possible, yet is so fucking familar that it’s a reminder of home. What a word: home. What a fable. Collected comfort and safety, easily torn from morings by an easy tide and nothing fought for, no titanic cataclysm from which to rebuild but instead the intrusion of a predictable spill! And it all capsizes, ceilings taking on water and the basement ready to cave in from an upended foundation. Escher has nothing on the architecture of this failure. Stomach churning and salt drawn from stinging, puffed eyes, choking collapses, bent bodies curled against the shifts of light and room as well as those changes in approach, for kindness is now simple courtesy, the thank you and you’re welcome of the polite present. New context painted, inverted subjects grieve behind Mona Lisa smiles, and everything is fine, just fine. The clouds belong down there. The earth spinning overhead. The vertigo of nostalgia, it’s no bother, really. The antidote for dissatisfaction was always the shrug and resumption of duty, unphased by the signs of collapse so evident in every wall crack and crooked beam. Just keep looking down that same tunnel, dear. That’s worked so well this whole time that these immune eyes are tempted to allow the diseased vignette a chokehold on tomorrow. Because seeing everything is feeling it all again; a death laced with sorrow and bringing no peace.


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