In the rounding years of one’s life, there are times when light begins to dim, the dusk of being, if you will. I once had such a life, in the distant future or distant past, I know not. It was a moment, a glimpse into something better than this moment. It was a utopian dream, perhaps, but I tend to think it was a spiraling.
What? You’re not familiar with the term, “spiraling”? Well, let me tell you, it is a whirling beat of a drum, a dance. It is a flourishing moment, awash with sorrow that cannot be conceived. It is the memory of a deep place, but not too deep. There are such places; we simply have never heard them.
But, I digress. Back to the gloaming. This is the moment when Being is less interested in the light; it is too blinding and it blisters the skin. Shadows grow strong and wise. There is weeping and gnashing of teeth. It is the time of of the Ibis.
This is my favorite moment.
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