Diffusing Light: Dayrise As Devotional Closure

I have grown to enjoy the sun, maybe because it’s one of the only constants between us both. Even if we vowed our lives to combing the darkest places of the Earth and of our hearts, it wouldn't matter. There is no place on Earth where we will be unaffected by the interminable rise. And in that rise, we are offered life, but you just give it the blind treatment. I pray to see a primal sketch of this resolve, study it's movements, and learn the methods necessary to recreate the moments of opulent humanity – you know, the blinks of the eye that are made into movies. But you, like good weather, wouldn’t come or stay, no matter how much I needed you to.

Suddenly, through a sensitive squint, I see. Your eyes are not simple, objective organs to stare at. They are a spillway into your soul, telescoping a vitality equally vandalized as mine. And I see a certain proof. A proof that of our perceptions perceived as truth, proof that we are unbalanced. The unbalance is urgently genuflected and plainly, my happiness will never rise unless it does simultaneously with your own. My struggle is your struggle. What was done to me, was done by a human. What I did, I did to a human. Now, I know. You are human. Words have so long been my sword and shield, but here and now, I abandon them for your eye-contact, for the tremble in your voice, for the smell of a sweating anxiety in wanting closure ["Please, let this be over."], in wanting a setting ["Lightly, take cover."]. Tandem, we rise.

It’s light now. I find myself again. I can see ahead, I ask “Where was I?”



I hope daybreak gives you faith.