—Jack Spicer
The lull of night has my
mind everywhere. Night
becomes morning, but it
is yet dark out my window
onto the courtyard of no
thingness. Which is who
I was, nothingness, for
many years. Until today.
What makes this day so
different? What used to
be normal. What used to
be normal? My thoughts
seem almost everywhere
and nowhere. Nowhere
rides or glides over or
through mountains, up
then down then up then
down then up then up,
until it finds a vast op
ening, a yellow field as
seen from this far above
surrounded by a misshaped
circle of trees. Oh, please,
am I not the same person
as always? I dare to hope.
For this disease of decline
is there even a cure? At
one time, or until quite
recently, I was desperate.
What have I given in to that
has me now at ease, a new
phase? There are things to
consider. For example, to
day is like no other. Which
can be said of any morning
at 5:09am. I stare at the tiny
corner clock that I can barely
see (my eyesight has quickly
devolved; this, too, makes a
day different, but than what?)
until it is 5:11am. I must get
dressed, this day being so dif
ferent and all. To be a myst
ery is to be silly. Without at
least a figment of humor, I
flail. Is flailing failure? Will
I live to find the answer to
this question? If each day
is different.... No, if norm
alcy has receded, let’s say
(with hope) for now, then to
ward what should I now aspire?
Should I rephrase the question?
This new way is (not) my question.
I seek answers about this day.
This new day. Is it the end of
an era? Was the ending era
as bleak as it seemed? Will
it get better before, perhaps,
getting worse? It does seem
such a waste to glide or ride
through this, or any, experi
ence without such question
ing. But from where did all
this newfound peace derive?
Why now? What to do with
my lack of interest in probing
this matter? Dawn arrives.
corner clock that I can barely
see (my eyesight has quickly
devolved; this, too, makes a
day different, but than what?)
until it is 5:11am. I must get
dressed, this day being so dif
ferent and all. To be a myst
ery is to be silly. Without at
least a figment of humor, I
flail. Is flailing failure? Will
I live to find the answer to
this question? If each day
is different.... No, if norm
alcy has receded, let’s say
(with hope) for now, then to
ward what should I now aspire?
Should I rephrase the question?
This new way is (not) my question.
I seek answers about this day.
This new day. Is it the end of
an era? Was the ending era
as bleak as it seemed? Will
it get better before, perhaps,
getting worse? It does seem
such a waste to glide or ride
through this, or any, experi
ence without such question
ing. But from where did all
this newfound peace derive?
Why now? What to do with
my lack of interest in probing
this matter? Dawn arrives.
