So I had to write some microessays for a class, but I liked it a lot so I think I’m going to take it up.
Green as green can be, empty like the top of an old snow globe. Spread before me is the world, and I am spread wide open. Whatever god there is, is close. Feel it in the bones, the cold-world solidarity in your toes, in your veins, warming you like a shot of something strong, feeling more alive than a newborn taking its first breath.
Breath tears the lungs, sweat more salty than the Dead Sea, exhausted. This is the work a body should be doing – all else feels sacrilegious. What were we given muscles for if not to work them back to the dirt. Bodies should be dirted, sweated, ground to dust and swept up in a tornado of wind, a cyclone of power. I am made of gratitude for the work my arms and legs can do.
The songs are sounded and I absorb: one, two, three. Fancy the taste of cyanide in the mouth – like almonds, but really my cheeks hold onto the sweetness of an apple. Meditation never works – thoughts think themselves up before they’re wrangled into boxes. I am pebbled by granite, the stone I see in my sleep. Cracks well when hit with a hammer. Sparks sometimes.