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If you can't change yourself, after all the efforts, change the light by which you read your story. Exchange overhead for something softer - a lamp, a candle, a vine of shining holiday lights - and feel yourself become hugged by the fabric of shadows. You see the darkness here has wisdom too. You see these objects around become related by the pregnant emptiness that holds them, and you. Let this light reveal the rapture of being just this. Then, further still, try moonlight, or no light, until, at last, this open, sourceless incandescence which you are no matter who you think you are will follow you from the inside wherever you may go, however you may change, or not. - Brooke McNamara
I want to put down what the mountain has awakened. My mouthful of grass. My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch. There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I sink to my knees tired or not. I now know the ragweed from the goldenrod, and the blinding beauty of green. Don't you see? I am shedding my skins. I am a paper hive, a wolf-spider, the creeping ivy, the ache of a birch, a heifer, a doe. I have fallen from my dream of progress: the clear-cut glass, the potted and balconied tree, the lemon-waxed wood over a marbled pillar, into my own nocturne. The lullabies I had forgotten. How could I know what slept inside? What would rend my fantasies to cud and up from this belly's wet straw-strewn field- these soundings. - Vievee Francis
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