K+ Andy Yang
The existential passage. Some lasting no more than a heartbeat, some longer than a mind can fathom. Ones who traverse by authority, others who lay to the elements.
My passage has been 42 years long and counting. It is neither one floating on a flight of fancy, nor one I can claim to have enthroned. With my “fate” as fluid as a merciless day setting into the illumination of repose, I have, at various junctures of my passage, stewed on the mysteries of creation, love, suffering, transience, and of course, on my passage itself.
I touch the face of my child and am besot with worry, flushed with joy. I stroke the chin of my wife and ruminate at how passages can intertwine and converse. I rub the grain of the pew and ride a circle unbroken.
So I paint the passage. Not all of it, and not all of it mine; thoughts and questions, sometimes my answers; and tend to recordation – for no reason other than the necessity to the exercise. How many rings shall colour the trunk before it is cut. I shall only know when it is felled.