Quick! Let Yourself be [Out]spoken.

The instant is of an imminence that takes my breath away. At the same time that I live it, I hurl myself into its passage to another instant
-Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life.

And however breathless I was - you are - it is me, after the hurling, passing the void, pulled toward light that stares into time's face, asking amongst my only self: am I to fault or can I perpetuate denial, innocence and blame life? For what? (As if we have forgotten, and already?) The fault of framing instances, instead of allowing their flow, being involved in that intimacy, carried by this breathing.

Lying in wait, sun attaches to skin, overshadowing the self's shadow; the need to become copper, to be cleansed, to have lighter lashes - anything to accentuate transparency, I think.

It is superficial, despondency. But have eyes close and you'll feel otherwise, seeing how hope hides not outside the body but below it, which means more when worded "within your self", yes somewhere there. And like a mute, you speak with your self only. Discuss how different this is - you are - in silence. I wish you would have spoken up because I am the same. Looking for closure, as well, my eyes dismiss the sun, my body forgets how tightly it grabs, and I stay still - on the outside - picturing this. So unheard of and lesser known, the blackness; it's like a blockage of time that hasn't yet restored life. Because in the blackout latent elementals are only just developing. Self changes time. Time changes sight. Both, time and sight, changes in-sight. And I am only someone somewhere because of these conditions. Other/wise I am I. Alone and nowhere, truly?

And then traveling, closing in, some voice spoke: Chelsea. Open up. We've made it. Sea.

Or was it "see"? I'll never know; the difference being slight.