Mechanisms for Such

Perfection has declared war once more on goodness, on peace, and I declared a ceasefire by utter capitulation to the world, its works and the whims of worst natures.

Perfection has declared war once more on goodness, on peace, and I declared a ceasefire by utter capitulation to the world, its works and the whims of worst natures. It’s not really that bad, really, that bad. But it’s never good, never pretty, never worth it, and I can see myself elongated in innumerable directions, drawn by grace, light and life in one direction, and folly and despair in another. Blessings abound, as always, and I find few ways to express gratitude that aren’t steeped in prayer and supplication. But somewhat scattered, yes? Needing to regroup, recoup, the faculty and focus that can be as indomitable as they are irrepressible. The mechanisms for such remain the same. Silence. Humility. Labour. Vocation. The written word. I spill about thirteen hundred of them in one fell swoop and intending only to warm up. A decent sleep beckons, but not before returning to wreak some kind of literary havoc without a game plan, to revel in the prolific proclivity that’s probably been triggered by some writing I’ve been undertaking for work. That, and exposure to the dizzying prose of Marquez in The Autumn of the Patriarch. A perfect storm, perhaps.