Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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Staring long into the golden death of day is the fool’s assurance that the night will bring beauty. The fool’s steel-eyed belief that the stars’ reveal will shape better destiny, it’s the a gravedigger hoping to avoid his offering. There’s no solace in a constellation cycle or the spun wheel of day; each is denial and a reminder that erosion is a constant. Of faith, of belonging, of love. It’s wind sheer and numbness. It’s the dulling of edges and perception. Yet that sharp stab of neglect shatters ribs, hot threads longing’s sting shattering nerve endings. They’re fires at each thought of the future, and so hope is a nuclear burn, a bone melting Hell that seizes moments before sleep with suffocating rage. Empty. The bed, sheets and soul. The home, the morning, the kitchen. The sunset, the sun, the finest joke told. Empty and yet still sinking, unbuoyed despite the vacant dryness of air filling labored lungs. A descent inevitable despite kind hands attempting salvation. It’s held breath with no sign of the surface in sight. It’s willed death when life blooms within view. Keep hold of that anchor, and the sun’s retreat is cold truth. Sleep’s folly is to expect waking to bring anything beyond a chosen isolation. No Hell is unexpected. The banishment from Eden was a decision with the punchline revealing no God keeps you out. No, that’s all you.


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