The Divine Farce (LeapLit)

by Michael S.A. Graziano

we were immersed in sonic color—the

I came to know hundreds of private constellations. Animals, buildings, words, faces—it was my obsession. The ability to lose myself in a vast mural of the imagination, and in that way to separate myself occasionally from the others, was necessary to my equilibrium.

Theatrics don’t work if nobody cares.

I’d feel paradoxically full in the stomach, empty in my heart, tired, alone, content, whole, hollow, broken and repaired, cheated and lucky, useless and essential to the cosmic pattern.

To the extent that heaven above is isolation, it seems to be hell. To the extent that hell below is a crowd, it apparently is heaven. Maybe we are condemned to an endless nagging sense of discomfort balanced against comfort, satisfaction against the itch to escape.