Can You Hear Us From Where You Are?
Tired. No, motionless. Weak, broken. Yes, broken. Approximating what the world kills. Our everything. Sensing the loss of a soul is no small feat. Eyes must be awoken, ears must be breathing, and hands must be open. Yes, broken. We are pushing. All that is left. Like becoming Sisyphus. That broken-hearted defeatedness of every day in every light of every breath you ever have, are, or will take. Leaning, stretching, forcing. Supporting a weight not of our own. Of yours. Committing. Committing to our own and yours. A weight not of our own. With steady gravity and hearts of raking joy. Open. Eyes breathing. Ears open. Hands awoken. But, yes. Broken. Can you? Can you, really? Hear us. Can you really hear us from where you are? What about where you are not—what a splendid place of broken hope. That must be. It must be. That process. That one of. Becoming Sisyphus. Elbowing, sweeping, shouldering with every belief of every moment of every now you will ever swallow. Like picking them up. It is what you do. They depend. On you. Your everything. Your weakening railroad track back muscles, your cold steel strength arms, your unwillingness to bend, your long 10-mile stare into nowhere they can, could or hope to see. Supporting a weight not of our own. Eyes open, ears awoken, and hands breathing.