Cut Quill

When Distance Fades

Clouds drop behind the world, stopping the background from view. All is disconnected and alone, placed against a grey-white canvas. Trees look as if their artist forgot to paint the distance, like a child drawing — nothing but my own immediate world.

The world hugs even closer in. The oblivion of grey is searching for ingress to this clear space about me bordered by the familiar. The rain falls — little by little filling my air with Lethe. Familiar even fades, as my memory; and now even more, nothing matters, and I wish I could remain forever.

Even this hum and steady rush of water will be taken, soon. Soon I will emerge from this careless grey into a world of both immediate and distant. When distance fades, rain falls; but drought brings all too clear sight. The world opens as a cloudbank.