Friday, August 22, 2008

AUGUST 23, 2002

Every day is the same. The sun rises, the sun sets. Either it's grey or sunny, warm or cold. Either the leaves are green or they're not. The fields full of growing things, or not. Every day is the same. The only thing that changes is our response to it. Do we embrace it or push it away? Is this home, or is it unhappiness? We ourselves make the only difference that matters.

A grey morning, dark later than it should be - it feels like fall; the sky looks like a fall sky. It's August, yet we fall towards autumn.

We have got a hangdown sky. Everything is wet but there's not even a tenth of an inch in the rain gauge. My breathing is heavy, noisy with moisture, as I sit in the car making these notes. Beads of water drip down the side window. Everything stops in this moment to acknowledge the ultimate darkness - the great void, the infinite silence of our goneness when we're gone. There is no sadness in death: sadness is a living emotion felt by those left behind as they stare into the emptiness.

The more you want, the less you will truly have.

Visibility in the country is not much more than half a mile. The sea gulls keep their distance from each other; they are not a white ten acres, but a mottled forty acres of empty field.

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