The Paradox of a Sublime Aberration

 

 

The Paradox of a Sublime Aberration

 ponderings on being an inconvenient duality

From afar, I see them forming on the horizon                       

of the sunset of my mind.

Blurry silhouettes, still undeciphered,

marching, as if soldiers headed into battle,

determined for victory.

 

As if victory could be declared

from two words so dissonant as ‘sublime’ and ‘aberration’—

now reduced to an inconvenience of duality.

Hoisting up a ragged white flag

receding into nourishing silence, I guard the unsaid

 to shelter what is wild.

 

Syllables condense into sounds,

forcing words to encroach

upon the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

That landscape, once pristine,

until words shattered silence,

forcing lines of communication—

an exchange necessitating blurriness.

 

I hold my breath, refusing to give life

to these harsh sounds

That fail to articulate stories of silence—

The prism where wildness prevails

on the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

Yet like any occupying force,

reinforcements rush to the front lines,

armed with a vocabulary of deceit.

Victory is usually hollow;

I want some leviathan to swallow those words

that besiege me on this fading horizon,

 the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

 

I want to sequester myself into the deep recesses of silence,

where words cannot leave imprints of doubt,

where words cannot sow seeds of deception

in a garden plundered by soldiers of fortune—

looters seeking battlefield trinkets

to carry back home

behind their own guarded walls.

 

I am no battlefield.

I am no prisoner of war.

So I return each day to the shoreline

at the horizon of the sunset of my mind.

Searching for silence without borders

to wash over me.

At times I’m distracted by beautiful seashells left scattered by Poseidon—

a language written without sound,

syllables shaped by the tides

rather than the friction of human breath.

 

I want to learn this alphabet of stillness that sparks joy,

reclaiming that space where words, those alluring occupiers,

attractive yet destructive in the same breath,

have penetrated the front lines,

infiltrating the intricately woven fortress

I so carefully nourished to life.

 

Silence returns, yet words persist:

challenging echoes

that sublime aberrations exist.

How I view myself in silence

versus how I am defined by language

is indeed an inconvenient paradox,

an inevitable collision.

 

fire + earth = friction.

Words dissolve into salt that earth reclaims.

Fire dissolves into smoke that silence reclaims.