I grab my Mr. Rodgers sweater, my hall pass and my Laundromat access card without loosing the heading that is turning into ascension.
When you are dealing with inward reality, unreality, and non-reality any muse will do to fold into the slipstream of the whatever. In a wide-open field where do they meet; where do they pass on parallel paths that never touch?
The most exhausting part is becoming clear that the shadowy mounting push did not need me. All I needed was to move aside and make my way up a bit further to the plateau and ‘walk’ into the sunset. The great egress. I heaved and will powered the paralysis to lift. I pull to the left, out from under the huge boulder I had created, whisking my hands of loose clay. All of the voices hushed as I scramble to the ledge and hoist myself up and into the black blinding light.
Having no pen nor paper on hand with my tiny existence, I mentally impressed upon a page a note of confidence and reform. The paper folded and nested close to my neck for someone to find. I exhaled and swooned wondering after all if I still had the gold loop through my ear for payment.
It had been months watching him wither, hands cramping, and toes slowly curling. The room had transformed into a daily camp, a cafeteria, debate forum, a rumpus room, a vigil. They stood around in now hushed tones and witness his release. His body relaxed and there was an undeniable letting-go of the body as it relaxed, deflated and stilled; then a re-gathering wistfully above, moving willfully and purposefully. They felt the familiar, now fade into the near next with a clip of shine singing from his ear, and conversation remorse on the tip of their tongues.