(found by the torn-up pages of a poetry textbook)
There is still time and always still time. What is the worth of mourning when there is work that can be done? What is the worth of mourning, especially the mourning of the self, for the self, by the self? When we cry, why do we? Have we been eluded by our past, abandoned by our present, lost by our future?
Or has nothing changed? Perhaps the shadows move, but pain comes from the view, from the adjustment to a new light. Behind the clouds the sun is always shining. Even if it always rains, at least you’ll find a rainbow somewhere, even if you need to squint to see it.
I dreamt last night, amazingly. There was this softness in the world, this perfumed air that I could never tire of, this glow, this smiling glow. I dreamt, and I was free.
Of course it was painful when I woke, to feel chained again. Rain crashed against my bedroom window and only a dimple alone in the pillow beside me. Yet I realized that I dreamt and therefore am alive. I know you do as well. I know you still live. Because you dream. You dream wonderfully. We all can.
A dog is barking. How beautiful. A carpenter hammers on the rafters of a neighbor’s roof. Melodic. The rain crashes down against my bedroom window. Unbelievable. Somewhere up there is the sun. Somewhere up there I have found it.
This is the world.
Find the day. Seize it. Grab hold, and let it run. Let go, and let it run away. Shiver in the night. Close your eyes and dream. Find the day again. Seize it.