Photo Credit: Brands Amon – Pixabay
Reading Time: 2 minutes


Sometimes I am confident that I am losing some particle or particles from deep within myself faster than I can discern what they are. And what do I feel at that? Knowing that I am losing parts of myself I do not yet know the value of? Does this account for the times I cry without understanding why? Who is drinking the wine out of my glass? Why do I have to fight so hard to pour wine back into it? Can I keep pace with the rapscallions and their barrels? 

These are the thoughts that find me in late evenings when it is just I and a poorly lit lamp. I feel heavy iron ore inside that slows my limbs—my arms and legs, it slows my morning run, it slows me when I try to wake up—I am caught in a space that is neither in nor out, neither here nor there, and what can I use to answer this call? How can I be whole for a single moment with the same particles as the moment before? What I long for more greatly than anything is simply stillness. Like a photograph. Like a ripple in a pond that freezes and undulates outward no further. Stillness. 

Oh what I would give to experience such a profundity. What I would give. What brings about the reclamation of self? Where is the horizon? Why is the night so long while the sunrise so brief? Has it been black night forever or am I simply blind? And who gave me these cataracts if blindness be the answer? 

I once found blackness so easy through the drink and it seems that drunkenness is now lost as well. What does it take for a man to escape? And who is to blame when all escape has become buried like dwarfish cities in hells of mountains? Am I like Jonah? Awake with a calling that will not sleep, that will not be put to bed? What am I to make when I know neither what to make of today nor tomorrow? Pick up the pen or pick up the sword they say, as if the two are in disagreement. I have made both work for me, yet I cannot tell whether I have made them work at the same time. 

Tonight I saw fireflies and they reminded me of ancient fights in ancient places. Fireflies reminded me of a place where hesitation meets courage. Reluctance meets courage here, and my face is filled with lines. I see my hands in dreams, arthritic, still moving—not enough to swing a sword, but enough to pen a word.

Roman Newell

Graphic Composition:
by: Darlene Carroll

Graphic work can not be accomplished without the incredible resources made available to this Author and his team.
THANK YOU to the following artists for the gift of their artistry and generosity in sharing their beautiful artwork, photography, and fonts.

Background Imagery:
o. Maret Hosemann — Pixabay
o. Brands Amon — Pixabay

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