The Sublime Myth

Meaning hangs on a wing and briefly holds together, tipping on some fine edge, a feathers weight from oblivion. Take this evening, a sunset settling upon the water, the fleck of a small boat with its solitary figure floating the still, birds flying overhead, each a part of a moment sliced from a second. Mere coincidence, a chance picture put together by a confluence of things in a corner of a vast cosmos. The birds trailing their cries in long threads across the sky seem to hymn a lament, the dark slowly closing over the world like a large eyelid before the coming of night and the onset of sleep. There is nothing but a sublime myth to keep the soul awake, to make of what is passing into something permanent, meaning kept afloat on that small, distant image of a boat set upon a blessed sea, it's existence flickering in and out of a pale beam of hope.