i don't speak of words word that fades with the light during sunset that happens ever so frequently that words alone may rob me of my quiet moment so so it may be this quietude that obliges the soul to think of some excuse to be known as a soul and just pretend that the sun is setting for me, at that precise moment.

perhaps, the mishap of that precise moment is that there is no wind to blow away the clouds but I appreciate the mishap of not being that physically comfortable with my camera, click, the fading moment could somehow be of little words and capturing instead my fading tension of sunlight magnitude.

then,, no name,,. could it be that it is my name that makes me feel lonely because there is always another out there being remembered but I prefer how it is that the wind can later pick up again and blow the tidings of the day and anticipate a night of dark presence that is really a slight pause from the rushing tides of everyday that washes away my name, those names, and instead I participate in that moment without a name but with a presence that is ultimately and wholly mine.

that alone, lonely as it may sound, is standing apart from me and I am not alone but we are alone, as he say, no, said, or should it be 'say', and reading too much into the sunset, I cannot escape the event of such a horizon of expectation, so much so that it leaves me, breath-less, hanging on a tightrope and suspended till gravity decides that her constant pull is but the necessary force to jerk me to a speech or confession that I have to deliver with my present anatomy.

This moment will be called grace.

fear is but the first call that drives me to bend my knees and cry an utterance unimaginable and unintelligent but it is never a fruitless endeavour when the climbing of any mountain, up or down, is always done in a relentless panting, after the climb, before the climb, when the joy of reaching is not achieved through the labour, but the delight of being placed in such an uneven situation.

in every sense, there is no one there with me except my immediate surroundings but they speak no language.

sick, I cannot cry alone. to cry is to cry for someone.
help, is the belief of a salvation.

then the day or the hour, or even the second, is the moment of grace where birth is the most occupied moment witnessed by the living in a crowded moment, receiving the divine responsibility that is to be obliged to a communion with the infant, in blood and with the first caress, with a Cry that announces the birth and death of a human being, not quite there, not yet, one that is whole or will ever be before death.

there can then be no peace;; peace is such a beautiful hope much maligned and too much faith upon that the wait becomes a gruelling test of surviving the dawn of the day where crying is the alarm that greets you, o sleepy me, the yawn to meet the cry that I cannot sleep, yes, I cannot sleep.

then there is no sequel to these words, where the conclusions are in a web of silence and cries and I feel the vibrations of the moving sun, which only patience can be the answer to the insomnia that plagues the growing me, rising words alone, but not resented since they are all I have, You, rising, where the falling is the meeting of the rise; and all the breaks, in between, are motions of a selfish love that denies me of a more profound unconditional passion:

the passion of crying, covered in blood.

we are alone, with You.

happy death-day to us.