On Tranquility, amongst Other Things

Originally written on September 24, 2020

drive a spike; formally, methodically, with the detachment of a surgeon’s stilled hands, into my heart.

make it a clean cut. a slick yet snug thing. something that could’ve charmed its way, with subtle wit and subtler flattery, into belonging there.

have the muscle and sinew part, like a crowd bathed lightly in awe, but only for a moment. have them tentatively step forward to bask in the soft glow of reverie. have them rush forward, a tide cruel in its benevolence, driven and dawning and desperate to fill any empty expanse.

have them clot the flow.

(a heartbeat. a hesitant grasp at purchase-)

but as a bouncy castle inevitably does, at the dusk of kind summer days, twist open the seams to seep blood out of its neatly packaged pockets. host it a resigned yet dignified deflation. the sort of thing that you could look at and bid “oh, that’s a shame” before walking on with but a small pang of nostalgia. be at peace in the thought that those who found joy here will forget, soon enough. children grow up. it’s all we really do.

and when there’s nothing but a humble canvas corpse strewn across the dewed field, do as the young, bright-eyed enfant does with his balloon at a carnival; with shock, with wonder, with grief, with mercy:

let go.