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the plainest kind of sad :: rebecca lilly

by on July 31, 2015

“Truth is absentminded,” my grandmother once said—that old granny in my head who never uttered much except adages. She was the plainest kind of sad, nostalgic for a lost world. She’s dead in her own myth—the crow shot by a farmer down the hill.

Forget the stories of elderly relatives; I’ll settle for a comfortable bed. As for absentminded truth: do inanimate things, such as stones, partake of it as much as I do? It’s the dark’s witchcraft rites: ash, embers and dusky leaf-coats, sinkholes and earthquake dust, cliffs crumbling after floods. Puff and pant, turn your eyeballs up; all you get is sand raining down an hourglass.

That’s why I left philosophy—that rather woodsy hideout with its forts and minor mountains–and headed downtrail toward a stream. Our memories: footprints of birds flying up (not trackable from earth) where our phantoms sift sand and dried mud. No moment in the hourglass remembers us.

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