There is no grave epiphany, no grand event that
befits a prologue. At first, there isn’t even happiness,
just the absence of grief, arguable degrees of non-
grief. But aren’t abstract measures of happiness
and forever, futile? Why do we force-fit round
equations into our polygonal universe? This is
not that kind of story. This is not an ode to joy.
Muddled pathos — because you don’t know how
much joy is enough joy, because you cannot
feel any more pain when even this much is too
much to bear alone. Don’t we calibrate our
feelings to fit our capacity for burden? Our ability
to fly? One pinch of blue sky to fit into one tiny
beak? A story with neither beginning nor end has
all the attributes of night. Light fades and
deepens with the rhythm of the earth, night is
a consequence, the singular failure of that turning.
This story is the side-effect of a larger becoming.
A parallel unbelonging. This story is a night in which
the appearance of an inconstant moon makes
no bloody difference to the overwhelming dark.