end of the age

“I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidean mind of man, that in the world’s finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, for all the blood that they’ve shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened.”  – Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov



There’s a possibility…

Tell me when you hear my heart stop
you’re the only one who knows
-Lykke Li

The sun sets through the curtains and the shadows fall across the dishes in my sink and the cool Pacific breeze blows through the quiet. I find myself distracted by anything –the soreness in my biceps, the distant freeway, the curls blowing into my eyes, the eleven new books in my room, my chipping red toenail polish– that I can find to bolster my self-constructed door on the lingering doubts, rootless worry, and pending decisions collecting in the back of my mind.

Content with life yet constantly grinding at a nameless bit between my teeth: this inexorable duo of silence & solitude steps into the tension between the smile and the anticipation and ignites it all.  The fragile wall restraining my expectancy, half-concealed dreams, and wry acknowledgment of future unpredictability wavers at the heat.

Someday I will look back on not knowing but I hope that I always remember what it feels like.

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