Peb 22, 2002


Here, the change of seasons are upon us. We are arid and dew-cloaked at the same time. Our comingled hair knows both stillness and wind. And our eyes are moist but sore.

Upon us are the riddles of our times. And we only have what we were proud once to call education. Now we can only speak it in whispers. As if both in false humility and in sheer embarassment. Our lofty ideals have failed us, we think.

Thinking not that we, the ascendant, are not lofty enough for them.

So we speak the tongue of compromise much more than we need to. We end up with another voice. Our arms refuse to grope and reach, so they grow shorter. Our feet decline to run the mile or even stride. Thus we are crippled.

Here, the change of seasons are upon us and we pull them down, those who are singularly hot or cold or white or black. Or red. We cannot suffer them, dreaming still the dreams that we have banished from the realm of reason. We would have them banished too.

We pull them down, those with least doubt. As if pulling them down were symptomatic of faith. That is our only resolution, to exile the resolute.

Upon us are the riddles of our times. They push forward with their answers, to triumph and survive or perish in trying. But their answers live on with such a flame that blinds us so much that we deny them.

We say to ourselves that it doesn't exist. There are no riddles and no answerers. But we just can't raise our hand or put our foot down.

The seasons are changing and we remain the same, always caught in the indecision that is fashionable, the doubting that rends our very identities. The seasons are upon us but we have no answer.

Our compromises have filled us to the brim, but we are parched. Our hair are tangled at the roots, justifying only our inaction, never serving as reason to move together. And our eyes grow ever more moist and warm, the skin around it trembling, twitching. We see nothing.

You and I, we only know that they are sore.

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