Under the Surface

Under the surface lies a monster. At the moment, the water is smooth as glass. In fact the surface does look like solid marble. You could drive a fully loaded 18 wheeler across it and the surface wouldn’t even crack from bearing all that weight.

Now a crane flies overhead and the water ripples. Air movement disturbs. Before now I imagined a jackhammer couldn’t make a dent, yet a feather waved cuts the surface like butter.

What is solid? What is permeable? Fuck! It’s a fucking illusion. And even that is bullshit.

The paper I’m writing on is solid. The lead scratched on this paper is solid. My thoughts are dense and tightly woven, yet lighter than air. Fuck! Why does that agitate me? Thoughts fucking haunt me. Taunt me. Like the monster. What bangs around inside me feels like a tantrum while I hold my pencil and delicately shape letters into words that somehow line up as sentences. So calm. Between calm and tantrum there’s a whole universe.

That universe feels like solid black. Black isn’t flat. There are layers of black on black. Since living here in the pacific northwest, I’m discovering there are shades of black. Standing in my closet I see seven shades of black. I want to hang with my black until I sense more than bleak. There’s a gift under the surface waiting to be discovered.

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