The way sunlight filters through maple trees in September. Just before they turn yellow fully.
That liquid, listless ray of gold and the remnants of early morning's fog burning off to make way for the rest of the day...
Where does it go? How does it burn?
These are the same questions I asked myself about you.
The way sunlight filters through maple trees in September reminds me of the way I ran as a child to the strong pillars of comfort in my family.
To my sister, calm and rooted in laughter.
To my parents, nurturing and smothering and rooted in worry but also love.
The way the sunlight heats the patch of denim exposed to its beam as I sit here by this window and it constricts and heats and begins to itch and burn the skin underneath reminds me of the way I'm running away from the over-arches and bridles of home.
Where do you go? How do you burn?
Where do I go? How do I ignite?
Nebulous expanses of time and gravity and single cells and shafts of flagrant, vagrant light whirl and blend in a spectacle of gypsy magic, tragedy, passion, first meals and last meals, first meetings and last meetings, first memories and final partings.... And I'm frozen in time.
I'm suspended in motion.
I'm caught in a crossfire.
Two roads diverged in a wood and I- I took the one with fewer trees.
Fewer shafts of glittering, laughing, filtering sunlight.
Less spectacle. More deliberateness.
My road has taken me to the edge of a ravine. I have reached my grand canyon of light and I catapult over the dizzying cliffside and explode into the air.
A magnificent Roman Candle, errupting violently into the starry night sky.
Come.
Burn with me.
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