This single tenet that greets the overwhelmed world.
The minor chords that fade into a bitter sweetness.
Look, there is so much more that can be said.
We marvel at words, we sell them…as much as a word cannot be for sale…we buy them every day.
We buy them like food. Like gasoline. We send them to our friends, our enemies.
Until we’re out of words. Then all that can be heard is breathing.
A sweet simple melody strung into silence.
There is joy here.
There is also terror.
A sweeping exhaustion.
Maybe to elevate one who is nearly nothing to one who is suddenly more.
But the truth is that by then everyone’s moved on.
Postcard: Self portrait as Frida Kahlo, considering Da Vinci’s ghost, encouraged by Dali graces, saved by Picasso’s dove, under Van Gogh’s’ stars, sheltered by Monet’s waterlily. Pencil, ink, chalks, on Arches.