It comes out as a sigh, that first release of the breath I’ve been holding.
By the time I look up, it’s 4:30 on a Friday, the dead zone for releasing information, let alone sitting down to write.
But here I am, my breath caught at last, caught in the comfort of an easy rhythm — in, out; in, out — as I allow myself to relax, to try to remember what it was like to live a day out of dread.
This is the way now.
A madman’s tiny hands no longer hold the reins of power, and while much remains to be done, much has already improved, just in the space of time it takes a minute hand to move.
The moment, the striking of noon on Wednesday, resonates. Though the bell tones pealed twelve times just like every day before, and every day to come, I heard them differently then.
I heard hope in those bells, and I hear it still: a tinnitus of optimism.
Over this I hear cries from voices that would drown the moment, if only they could grip it and wrestle it beneath the waves of their own rage and dismay.
Not today, not today.
And for the days ahead I shall push through, focusing on the sounds that matter, repeating the good things I hear, and endeavoring to let the dark voices fade into history by ringing those bells again, and again.
lastgreypoet 