Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The light seared. It dipped and eddied like seawater in tidal pools, playing over him, flowing, stopping to immerse and then pulling away into the shadows of his features like stolen interest. He squinted into morning and the lines of his forehead creased at dusk, his wonder of the sun and its hold on him – on everything – brandished like a scabbard in some long ago battle that his ancestors had fucked their way from. He felt a kinship to that bright, even as his rheumy notions of hope and faith seemed too clouded to reflect, soaking in the spectrum of every single moment and returning little but pitch and gray. He saw color, but it mocked him, dancing in its pinwheel prism spill along the walls of the present, descending into pasts ill-spent like this balled dollar or such bankrupt sense. And his palms opened, air flowing through fingertips like wind through tall pines; he could hear the rustling of his leaf-like soul attacked, shuddering, wanting to hang on but with each blast weakening, darkening despite the spread of afternoon along his nails, knuckles and tendons. Stretched into day, curled into night, there was worth in his grasp that he’d long forgotten the feeling of, sharp edges digging into the callouses cresting his life line. And he needed it again, as if it were a stone still dusty from ground-pull, carelessly and greedily excavated for the sake of holding onto something and giving it meaning. Just to have anything in hand that could be blessed with belief and a reawakened faith so long dormant it was presumed dead. Even the smallest bean can sprout, sustain, strive. Even the unlikeliest path can lead to home. And that light warms, liquid color permeating the dark, hand polishing stone, worthiness growing from within as if the mantel of belief under the rigid crust of today. Let it earn its way out, erupt and join the Heaven gleam sky, a confluence of outer and inner vibrance that blinds and screams for the surrender of dark, the wretched death of skepticism. He smiled. He believed. It was the sunlight that let him see. (at Undamned)

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