Pause for breath — from the rush, the panic attack — to BART, to work again.
Shared experience felt in the lapse between destinations.
Monuments are layered onto monuments.
Cement walls of buffed graffiti, all inscribed to her.
Say her name: Nia Wilson. Echoes thundering beneath the freeway.
All signs of grief removed, but the heaviness of recollection remains.
A body full of memory, a mind that wants to erase.
Send me an angel.
I look up to find:
Foundations torn out, flipped; renewal attempted through erasure.
Elements of a place, threads of alienation and devotion used to weave one cloth.
Tread warily through transmutation; stalk what comes to pass.
A home built from shards of glass, its intricate surfaces gleam in the light.
A complicated web, so broken and beautiful.
This summer I found home by tracing the cracks between three jobs in the cities I love but can barely afford.
Steps motivated by an unfounded optimism: that breaks in the facade will give way to change.
Faith in the love of a place.
Held in the weightlessness of knowing that everything must go.
Open Space Go to Source
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