To be still.
To be still in the midst of things,
of lives that creep closer
and fill the air like the opening of a music box.
To lose yourself in the particularities:
a crisp-edged wing
an underside of blue.
To become sight.
To funnel yourself into the outside
as though it were one thing that could house your being:
a casing made of thin, vibrating glass.
To become magnification.
To become so still as to become a part of things,
to forget you were not always,
to become unthought of
by the thousand eyes above.
To feel your bones newly hollow,
the air gathering beneath you and your whole body
Ren Arcamone is a writer and aspiring optimist living in Sydney, Australia. She can be found occasionally tweeting into the void at @renherring.
Photo by Denise O’Donnell