Rhythms

Rhythms: The sun’s angle, the weather’s bite, the garden’s cycle. Repeating arcs, long and short. We are rhythmic; internal beats syncopating and disassociating with what surrounds, synergy and discord. Never long at equilibrium; leaning and alive.

There is no stasis, no single arrangement to be sustained. There is only our harmonization with the ebb and flow of the systems surrounding us. A relationship is sustained and always in transition, rhythms searching for synchronization.

Rhythms move me; I am a passenger in transition. Though I long for my favorite phases in rhythm, I know they cannot be distinguished in stasis. The approaching solstice’s darkness darkens me. I don’t want it but I need it.

People tell me to flatten the rhythm. We can fix that now; leave the darkness. But I have reasons for letting the rhythms take me. The light is informed by the darkness, and the darkness by the light.

The world speeds toward homogenization. Find the optimal state and hold it, remove the peaks and valleys. Freeze appearances; stop the rhythm. Make a place the same as the other place and hold it in time, new. Accelerate toward timelessness.

I resist; I need the dark and the light. I want to be reborn with the spring, dream when the sun’s high, fall inward, and let winter’s low load the catapult for a new year’s arc.

Age wears the sharp edges. When I was new I scraped the edges and knew I was alive, but experiences repeat into oblivion and the edges become smooth. What is left? There is no life in the optimal condition.

Rhythms remain, overlaid on one another, creating infinite combinations. The world is new.