of intervals, a pause so small as to go unregistered by any instrument of time, so evanescent it slips through the hands of history, the yearning appears. Not a yearning for anything that can be owned, eaten, touched, or even named; not a hunger that can be sated by any act of consumption or communion,…

and categorized, for objects that have edges, shadows, reflections; Presence is before all of that, and after as well… © KD.W.Heim

but the mind does so anyway, racing through metaphors, similes and failed analogies, hoping that somewhere in the act of speaking, it itself might briefly become manageable; it never does… © KD.W.Heim

that bridges the moment right before words become possible and the instant immediately after memory is lost… © KD.W.Heim

stories become more complicated and rituals more elaborate to disguise it; presence remains uncorrupted, unmanipulated… © KD.W.Heim

have escaped it; the foundation of truth, the only residue that remains when all else has been stripped away, shared by all but owned by none… © KD.W.Heim

between one obligation and the next, one feels it: an ache for silence, a craving to fall in a stillness so perfect it will be amplified to thunder; plunging into the silence, swimming in it, emerging cleansed, but the longing curdles as quickly as it arrives. What remains in a day assembled almost entirely from…

fills with memory, fear, and hope; the mind, disengaged from itself, restores what it believes to be the necessities of the day… © KD.W.Heim

its true nature in the static of the everyday, the noise of the unremarkable. Yet, the one who insists on looking beyond what is merely apparent, finds the meaningfulness of absence, the power of what is unsaid…. © KD.W.Heim