from twilight to twilight, heading for the sublime -

[ivyology]

I keep reading that poem, below. It fits, so well, and it's about something else entirely. To believe in the cyclical order of things (and I do, I really do) I must believe there was no escaping this. What rises, falls; what hopes, despairs; what breathes, dies. In and out and around and back again.

(I'd like to raise a hand and blot out all the darkstained evils of the world, wipe away all the vast black spaces between the stars, but how could I, how can I? Its sleeping cells are in all of us, waiting to rise, a cancerous strain.)

There is nothing but this moment anyway. (And I'm alive. Surely that is good. There is music and words and warm showers and rain and hot lemon tea and quietly empty hours, and it's happy, I'm happy. The world is only how I see it, and the world through my eyes is quiet sleepy blue-lit peaceful.)

I have the sense to count my blessings, and the faith to let them go.