the white spirit

It was mid-morning. The realization that all the bridges have been burnt, except for creation’s, crawls out of an uncompromised living; of accrued guilt over not-working; of confusion over the authenticity of the guilt. The wind carried the world’s sadness and the music the call of the world. There was no loneliness. Only absences. There was nothing to see, to imagine, to remember. There was no void. The door is always open but chains clink. Chains clink, chalks wane, lives fade. There is laughter in mourning and mourning in laughter. Life suddenly appears as a mass of ephemeral moments and death the perpetual moment; nothing can exist between them or else my existence is an illusion. The spirit has to be chased and caught. The spirit needs to stay.

It refuses to stay. The soul has not yet blended with the body. The body is a cage. The spirit flies. Another mid-morning it’ll again need chasing. Another mid-morning the wind shall carry my sadness along with the world’s.

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