Here Comes The Sun

 ...you know that certain light - it's not always visible, and it doesn't denote, connote, point to or relate to anything.  Not at first, second or fiftieth glance anyway.  You can't just look at it like that easy truck stop slut the sunrise, all sideways smiles and bright fuchsia nails...or that wistful, weepy woman- the sunset- crying at you and demanding your attention as she sits tear stained on the stairs, making you compliment her new, most comfortable shoes.  No, not the happy go lucky sunny day, so clear and simple to understand - the bleached, yellow sky speaking small talk to you, even the horrors of the rains, the most dramatic thunder and lightning, taking out your diversions, the artificial lights you come to depend on, sadly....can't find your papers, to remember and tell you what you believe in, tripping over your belongings, your senses of yourself, taking down the night and the dreams that form murky rainstorm pictures in front of your grey night's pupils...chopped and layered waves smacking up against your shattered mind, making sharp and altering dance moves for you to gaze upon, when the blankets of the rain soak you into itself, down the sea wall, chipping off the moss at your sides, your barnacles making their way into the hard, lopsided stone...well, if you make it through the storm, the hype, the rising tide and the panicked masses of faces blanking you and feeling threatened by your initiative and by your thought to ask the audacious question "why should I listen to you".  If you can wait out the fearful ones, the yelping dogs, the paper money throwing itself around, hitting the damp spaces around the foot of the stairs where the sunset sits, drunk on watered down gin, hand holding head and unable to stop her blubbering, because she can, not realizing that there is always a brightly coloured sunrise smoking outside the 24 hour diner round the corner....when the rest of them are stuck in their mired sleep, fashioning ways for their own to be led around by the nose, because it's much easier than opening the door after the storm and greeting it with the properly measured time, clicking your steps behind you as your shadow moves along.  That ever so fleeting sense of light that doesn't tell you all its secrets, doesn't mind all of its leaks and tears, it will come out of the sky slowly, after the so called destruction process.  Self-made, of course.  It's all in how you took it.  How you looked it in the eye as it came for you.  How did you greet it as it moved slowly across your inspiration airs.  How is it now, in the quiet of the outside time, the boats rocking without shame in the constant movement of the waters, white crested waves making not a peep.  Some stories don't need to show you their plot lines, present to you their endings...they simply are, and simply are alive only when you allow yourself to be told their tales.  Sitting motionless in the clean, supple puddles in the late afternoon light - the pale colours not defined, not sent to a cloud or an obvious sense of sun or rain.  You are taking part in the destruction, in the resurrection, in the dreaming and the conjuring of alchemy, all the elements forming with every second....it does not unfold without your acquiescence.  Your beholding is as crucial as the over-bloated sun fancies taking bows in your light every morning.  Climb on in; take your place in the creation and movement of light without an absolute starting point, light coming alive when it does not offer up the sweetness of itself, all that easily...it still invites with each passing breath of breeze and droplet of rain slipping down the length of its neck, turning to meet your gaze in a world not yet expired in its definitions of story yet untold...

M. Lucia