Convergence: Tendency to One Point A fisheye view where you can see everything at once: your whole future unrelenting and nimble as quick as an idea, forgotten before it is even thought. You can see it all mapped out, irreversible veins raised and ready for puncture. The geometry of your life: blue, ingrained, vainglorious. How your eyes can adjust to things- the inside of an apartment after an eyeful of sunlight. How you can see part of the moon when it isn’t really there anymore: hanging sliver white as pearl on black. It’s fullness still faintly visible, an illusion. A palsied arc, the fingernail piece of moon that hangs like it’s missing something of itself, Waiting out it’s own cycles. II. Moments fast as wax, weaning in, and out. This is all you have. I understand as I arch, the small moon of my lower back pressed into a groove of this kayak, afloat somewhere in the Pacific Ocean just north of Santa Monica: that all things must converge into this one point. The moon is finally full tonight. It’s constant with it’s changes. There will always be that: change, evolution. Maybe my father is somewhere in Malibu, fishing and alive as ever. Maybe all I get with the people I love are minutes, or, at best, a week well spent . Look at the granite reflection of my face, bobbing there on the crest of that wave, about to spill over into the sea and split apart Can I ever truly understand that no one stays with you forever? That yes, the reflections will be there again, your face will still be in the medicine cabinet in the morning, But that so much will have come to pass and you won’t even know it as you scuff the floor in your tired socks and sit down to cereal. j.pastiloff Thank you for taking the time to read my writing. I will be adding more. If you would like to post a comment about my writing please send me an e-mail. Comments From My Readers |
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