Standing in the midst of the sky, lighted and free flowing as the clouds but not quite, as I am nowhere around them. They are a barrier that needs uncovering. At some point we should let go as though brushed veils. A man can be optimistic about that, a fresh breath of air and the thing that holds within, that snatches. Its presence is dominated on this roof, where pipes lay around, the grit and the gravel, laid to cool the building. Perhaps a misery to walk on without shoes, but who would do that? Come up above without the shoes or initiate walking dismissing the slippers. Although some may say about this whole endeavor of mine as well. The misty cold air mixed with the geyser's ecstatic smell. The night makes it so that the only watching eye is me and the moon. The hustle is down there where living lives. Here the more up I am the more astute the hug by the force that allows the clouds to be up there and me on the ground. The drop is the only presence, which is constant, but here literally there is a downside to dropping down. It is not going down the hierarchical order. Somehow in the morning I feel relieved staying here, clinging to it, although it wants me back. The gravity.
The roof holds me where clouds cannot reach,
gravity whispers what the heart already knows:
to let go is not to fall but to stop holding
the thing that holds us, that snatches breath,
until morning comes and we are finally light.
To die here is not an ending but a settling,
a weight finally admitted, finally named.
The sky does not ask us to rise.
Image is mine.
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