Love.
Ours is a world of stilted prosody, flat and banal, the flourish of ad copy, the etymology of the focus group. It is speech calculated to intended effect, never deeper than the sheen, no wiser than the fortune cookie paper slip. It’s a monotone babble, furiously expounding the nothingness that fills that wasteland of spinning static, born of an ersatz orchestra of twittering chatter.
But we are made for much more.
In a mystery, we come to this at times when we are hollowed out by pain and loss, the trauma that raises that terrible tonicity, the deepening of the heart in lament. Our mundane routine shifts, that sudden departure from the expected, the wrench that shreds us from within. Suddenly what was, is gone, its fading imprint turning us inside out. And the identity which shaped us is shattered at the leaving. We are torn, the grasp on ourselves…
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