Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

Home / Uncategorized /

The razor carries more truth, but cuts less than words. So many times, the utterances fall like daggers and lacerate will, severing hope and carving away onion skin that fails to protect from the sick grip of entropy. Dreams leave longer scars, haunting with their suggestions of what should have been while reality suffocates like a blanket caught wrong over an infant. Slicing through the fabric of it all, well isn’t that a release? Doesn’t the crafty inmate attempt to dig a way out from prison? Yet when clarity settles, when failures clear like spent storm clouds over calming seas, the crisp indigo of truth unblurs hazy beliefs; conclusions that transformed home into a holding cell. The rains endured, the winds accepted, the scars thickening skin against maelstrom remorse, still life isn’t still. The frozen moments of pain skitter and die like tadpoles poured onto arid sand, and each photograph pricks the skin as a reminder of a world bled into. There are no portals into perfect, and no sting or prolonged tear will fight the corroding forces of agony, but instead turn shelter to tinder and expose hearts to the reign of darkness. Maybe there are reminders in the long incision; maybe crimson discovery of oxygen are eyes turned to the sky’s freedom for the first time in decades. Maybe composition steals thoughts enough to suggest better worlds exist – worlds quiet of chaos where pain doesn’t need to scream against the cacophony of day. It’s all guesswork, except the fact that there is a single sun throwing light on a single Earth, a single moon caught in their dance. They swim together in an infinite sea coated with solar brine battling the vaccuum of an indifferent universe. So small, so alone, so complex but gorgeous and delicate. Harm builds from within, deep trenches of progress threaten to kill, not cure. Surrounded by silence, yet hurry is religion, the devoted maiming the land, the sky, themselves. The lesson of peace surrounds all, but ears turn inward, attuned to inherent discord, stories of turmoil littering blank slates. Loose serenity into the soul, and immunity to the wretched disease of need spreads with words of hope. May they cut deepest. (at Blades)

To see what's what in the world of Santo

>> <<