|Ela Zubrowska : color is on flowers|
And so your enemy
stalks you. You thirst, you
stumble; wonder if this heavy
quilt of night will suffocate or free;
if wilderness conspires
to make you know how small
you truly are. Or how infinite. How
frail. How alive. Ancient as this deer run.
Now become the seeker.
Turn into the hunter.
Turn around and charge after
what's chasing you down, run with
dark blades emerging from your fear
to stop in the air and turn the other way,
poised to strike as your strange new weapon.
And then when you
decide you're ready to die,
you'll see the bullet as it stops,
blooms, and pulses light, a song
pouring out from this meeting with
your unseen power that encircles you—
and here in your near-death, you
will find out who you really
are. It can't be done
any other way.