I see it when the world stops. I feel it when my heartbeat goes through the floor. There’s a resonance to it and an underlying pulse.
When it morphs, my breath catches, the breathing stops and the rhythm of it all falls into place.
There’s a tragicness, a solemn regret to the meaning of it. A distant path of neglect. It’s a scurrilous falsity. It comes and goes with the way the world turns. It’s tragic in its breath. It’s undeterred in the space it occupies and yet it is there. In runs the gamut of emotions. It finds its hope among the rotting and the refuse of the left behind parts. The phantom life. The perilous thing that wants to be, but can’t.
It runs across the floor and yet…we don’t see it, not yet. It rolls across. It fumbles the mechanics of it all and when it does, we don’t feel the push. We don’t understand its rhythm.
We’re lost in the heartbeat. We’ve sold our souls to find our place and within the strategems of willing it to continue.
In the last heartbeat, we’ll see the distant underlying pulse, the resonance, and when the breathing stops, we stop.
It’s coming together.