Think about this...

"In a time of constant transformation, beatitude is the joy that comes with belief, with certainty. The beatific bathe in almighty love, wear smug grins and play their harps and acoustic guitars. Safe in their cocoon from the storms of the metamorphosis, the blessed give thanks for their unchangingness and ignore the leg irons biting into their ankles. It's eternal bliss, but nix nix, you can keep that jailhouse cell. The Beats and their Generations were wrong. Beatitude is the prisoner's surrender to his chains.

Happiness, now that's something else. Happiness is human, not divine, and the pursuit of happiness is what we might call love. This love, earthly love, is a truce between the metamorphs, a temporary agreement not to shape-shift while kissing or holding hands. Love is a beach towel spread over sifting sands. Love is intimate democracy, a compact that insists on renewals, and you can be voted out overnight, however big your majority. It's fragile, precarious, and it's all we can get without selling our souls to one party or the other. It's what we can have while remaining free. This is what Vina Aspara meant when she spoke of a love without trust. All treaties can be broken, all promises end up as lies. Sign nothing, make no promises. Make a provisional reconciliation, a fragile peace. If you're lucky, it might last five days; or fifty years."

- Salman Rushdie in "The Ground Beneath Her Feet"

Your Silence

In your silence, during

your silence, i am a man alone
with no memory, frail
like a browned leaf falling.

No sun and nothing to see,
for mountains of sadness
are shoveled on me. No sound,
no ears; they're tuned to the sob
that knows inexistent hands
will pat it down at the first instance.

Your silence is the crisp blue flame
licking your gift of forgetting,
my involuntary blinks, our night sky
of deafness to everything but our voices.

I am the distance, spanning the highways
of this, your silence. A hoax, a myth,
an illusion, glimpsed momentarily
and gone the moment
you snap yourself back
to the snaking precipice ahead.

Coldness is this itch on my skin,
longing for the warm caress of the ocean.

Breathe unto me
the faint whisper of your exhale
that i may live, dream and feel
this, in this, emptiness filled by my being.
For color. For skies. For joy.