I poked my eye this morning, turning over trying to extend my sleep. The flash, a jolt of cream in dark roast coffee jarring me awake, barely dawn. Dusk deep, the borderline of dark, the fireflies float over the grass whimsically, randomly, playfully, willfully announcing their right to turn on and off on their own time. Capricious and teasing, testing what is real what constant, fourth of July sparklers proclaiming, nothing is permanent. Not the light, not you nor I.
Sparks of clarity in an obscure universe, meaning is measured in seconds and lives crackle in a well-seasoned pan. You can’t use a cast iron skillet on an electric stove. You need the flame, the gas, the fire, the brightly yellow, orange, shades of blue. Then the eggs sizzle in the fat. The whites brown around the edges. The yellow softly velvet pushing to break down walls, eager to run free. It sticks you know If you let it dry on the plate. Better to mop it up even if a little dribbles on your chin.
The price of freedom is messiness and the gnawing notion of not really knowing very much for certain. I walk up the path, night descends. Tiny incandescent LEDs tease and teach: I glow, I grow, I know.