Monday, January 17, 2011



Never too tired to read, though.

Propped up, in bed.

Sampling. Three books, this time.

Words rise from the pages, to etch their similar forms on the slate of my internal cognition apparatus. They flow silently, vicariously. Descriptions and dialogue become a soundscape, as they pass through the forest of neurotransmitters that compose the functionality of my singular body electric.

There is shadow life beyond these pages, their margins and my peripheral vision, internal and external. 

Intermittently, tropes rise up, from time now and time immemorial—melding into a timelessness and tirelessness—oscillating and calling for my extra notice. In my brain, on the page, and within the seamless flow of silent, but sounding, semiotic pragmatica, they arise. 

Meanwhile, sleep has sent out its call for me, as well. The filling moon pulls at the biosystems, urging them to fall into sync with the trope grid, and join the music of the spheres.

Fall, surrender; let go unto rest.

Words on the page, as well as words on the mind, waver. Tired eyes, sampling, waver.

Night of mystery.

For, through some tiny fissure, something extra comes. Working through the maze of sign upon verisign, word upon very word, singing through the thicket of being, non-being, reflection, abstraction, wave and particle—perhaps on the cusp of change from potential to kinetic movement—it comes.

Not on the page, not on the lucid mental slate, not of moon nor ocean nor body—but, of some other.

Some other—not of my life or moment—joining my perception.

A message. A descant of some sort, a harmonic attachment, perhaps in syncopation to my rising melodic waves, causing my notice. 

A message. I reach in, and it retreats. I pursue it, but cannot find the thread to grasp. Shy, it slips further away, back into its hidden fissure. 

Wait! Don't go! I want to perceive you!

But, it slips again, even farther away, and in perfect reflection, I slip away into the repose that has been awaiting my necessary arrival.

And, as I go, I make this covenant between the hidden music and myself, as we retreat in opposing directions: I will find you, I will hold you; I will understand.

We will yet sing together, sonorous and simpatico.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

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