What is the hurry?

 

Why do we always…run ourselves so completely? Why can’t we slow…amble…like the planet’s plates and sun? We have no breath…and yet we try to scream out lifetimes. Our lungs burn all our seizing, rapid lives. Like a fish gasping grounded…like the goose that drops mid-flight…like a hand that grasps at chest pain…we must slow else say goodnight.

…Why does the end come?…Why rush we toward it? …Why must muscle buckle? …Why tears in sweaty eyes? Man cannot linger…because man’s forgotten how. It is his heartbeat, his pavement, his wristwatch, his brother, who rushes—he rushes—like a heat.

Shhhhh…

…Hear that? The sound of body slowing? The pulse of blood’s retreat? The end of frantic nightmare? Is it calming? …Or defeat?

—Azriel

 

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