There are no magic powers, there is no little death,
there is only a letting-go - however fleeting -
of that death-grip in which we hold
our precious ones & zeros
-- Dave Bonta, "Sacrifice"
Is there a letting-go? I wonder. Memory is a biased, fearful witness. The wind is strong tonight, and it blows away my resolutions and decisions, little cobwebby things. Only the longing remains.
A marching drum heard in the distance, over the foggy heads of the hills -- the coughs of young men with beards just starting, carrying dreams of glory and fears of mutilation, stumbling footsore in the moon-filled mist, in the dreamlike grip of deja vu. Wondering if this is the way Death announces himself.
The sudden clarity when a chainsaw takes off a finger or two, and you stare at your hand, realizing that always, always you have wondered if they really can come off. Yes, they can. They really can.
Do we ever let go? Well, we are cut away sometimes. But that, surely, is a different thing?