A little bit at a time. I unravel my old earbuds and Posey turns it into a toy and I enjoy her cat-ness and don't react. She settles down in my lap and purrs and rubs her head on me. She is more like a small dog than a fat little cat. The machine starts in the morning. The news cycle hammers on, suggesting thought and untruth and unbelief, and the soul drifts farther into a quiet absence. When it can. Rain shuts it all down and presses us inward towards the human hearth. Everything is wet outside and the wind is biting in the trees. Candles burn quietly and soft music can be heard far away. Responsibility is an anchor. It ties me to the world and to theses people that I try to help out. It feels to me like there is a candle burning dryly in the pouring rainstorm, and it never goes out or looks weak or dim, and nobody ever finds out why. It just is. Black cold and wet night, the dry light is white hot. Tonight is the night the candle got all wet with rain and yet burned brightly. Like it is in the temple of stars right now, unassailable by tempest or divine successor, or the hammer of fate. It just keeps on going like it is inside you and everything else all at once. Right now. And a few people remember it as a pillar, and the rest forget, and still, somewhere, it is a light in the darkness of doubt, available to anyone, anytime. And nobody ever finds out why.
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