The long fall to center
Creative evolution is upon me
Did I just see lightning strike? Or did I imagine it?
I swear through the fine mist of dusk, just over the trees, I saw a thin bolt thread straight down toward the ground. I saw a bright line, not quite in the fuzz of my peripheral vision, demarcate the sky above.
“The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore”
There’s a wild me that lives on the left of it, that circles this path like each step might make it new again, that turns each corner, cocks its head up at the looming branches, and sees unfamiliar shapes. And there’s a domesticated me to the right of it, trained to see only doom in the familiar ones.
She’s taken up residence here like an unwelcome houseguest, spread across the carpet that needs vacuuming, lounging on the laundry pile that needs washing, waking nightmares long dormant.
Meanwhile there’s something oscillating at my center. My channel has transfigured into a centrifuge, separating what is essential and non-essential, dismembering and distilling my creative components.
Something is being made available and the refinement process is explosive, expulsive.
I’m right inside it, in the space where nothing makes sense and nothing brings comfort.
