The Item

There is a presence, an item, and it lives, without need for oxygen. But it’s not him, even if my mind’s eye insists.

I made him up in the length of decades. After many words ensued, he inhabited my head, full of himself. He became a rant, annoying as a jump scare, never listened.

But today I let him go, even if he imprints his presence, always busy in the background, ready to protect from the greatest threat of them all, loss.

I created him, internalised the frequencies of his mission; absorbed into my stream the perceptions he embodied; took it all into the deep tissues.

His worried presence, neurosis, accumulation of stress. The item fights a future he conceived in fear, almost a century ago.

But today I granted him the possibility. I bade him farewell, gave him the freedom to disappear and to continue on as simple energy, told him he could change.

I can differentiate now, and that is the difference. He is not human, but a servant of a will that is not my own, the envoy of a mission that I did not choose. Yet he must be appreciated, somehow acknowledged, and I do, by strange grace arisen at the summit of change, an eclipse, a dark Sun bearing the radiant crown of closure.

An item to be left aside, to dissolve in the newborn year.

He shall then rise as cottonwood seed would, in the warm air of my evening. In the meantime, I will fight to remember the way of brightness. Adventures free of expectation, clear roads unblocked, vacancy.

I shall pray for silence, empty rooms, and a handful of future. Gold pebbles in the raw, the touch of Midas in my hands, a magical song dancing as a flame would in twilight.

Intentional fire ablaze. Velocity inspired.

He left in an instant, when I saw my fear was his lack, the familiar voice an poor imitator of my soul.

Imagination transmutes fast, I know.

Soon he will live differently, on another type of ray, a beam of tomorrow, dressed in clear splendour, waiting for my arrival.