oh man! i re-read the last post and saw a bunch of typos so i went back and fixed them. alright, and now my reply to Neruda:
It's winter now and the sun hasn't risen when it is time for me to leave work. Working at night acquaints me with three kinds of blindness: blindness from too much light, blindness from too much darkness, and blindness from too much grey. I walk out into a world whose grey is thick and uniform. This grey always robs me of energy. It makes me feel as if it doesn't matter if I try or not because pain and joy are, in the end, the same.
But I have been rescued every morning since winter began by a flock of more than one thousand birds whose wings and song break the monotony in the air. They fly like a great airborne undertoe, carrying the air forward with such force that I can feel eddies from where I stand on the ground.
One hundred upon one hundred black pestels pound the grey expanses as if it were the husk of an atmospheric spice. Out rolls the pungent sun, exuding his aromatic light and I am saturated with the heavy musk of another morning. Such weight! My lungs can hardly bear the sunrise. The birds gather in the air and pulse like a magnificent black heart. And then, stretching out they surge forward, cracking like a whip and driving the grey before them.
How can I repay these black winter birds for saving me from oblivion?
It's winter now and the sun hasn't risen when it is time for me to leave work. Working at night acquaints me with three kinds of blindness: blindness from too much light, blindness from too much darkness, and blindness from too much grey. I walk out into a world whose grey is thick and uniform. This grey always robs me of energy. It makes me feel as if it doesn't matter if I try or not because pain and joy are, in the end, the same.
But I have been rescued every morning since winter began by a flock of more than one thousand birds whose wings and song break the monotony in the air. They fly like a great airborne undertoe, carrying the air forward with such force that I can feel eddies from where I stand on the ground.
One hundred upon one hundred black pestels pound the grey expanses as if it were the husk of an atmospheric spice. Out rolls the pungent sun, exuding his aromatic light and I am saturated with the heavy musk of another morning. Such weight! My lungs can hardly bear the sunrise. The birds gather in the air and pulse like a magnificent black heart. And then, stretching out they surge forward, cracking like a whip and driving the grey before them.
How can I repay these black winter birds for saving me from oblivion?
2 comments:
holy fucking god good.
-elizabeth
thanks! i've been trying to share this experience for awhile because it is SO amazing. every morning it happens. and i think to myself "how is it that the birds know when i get off work?" i mean it NEVER fails!
and it's unlike anything else i've seen. when i saw it i just wanted to someone else to know how awesome it was. so i told Neruda and you...
Post a Comment