Light

As the small patch of sunlight reflected off his arm, he thought of leaving and going, of turning it on and off. But these things were not enough. To leave was only an exit; to stay, only an exception. To dive, to swim, was to say: "I am light. I care not of my orient or position. I exist as small patches or I flicker to the left of right of arms only to shutter in and out of views and shapes." To understand that he saw the door shut on the light would be to say that he only understood that the door shut or that the light was when the door shut. But he knew it was more. Not entirely sure, but entirely thinking that he may or may not be sure. Small patches flickering in and then out. He saw it perfecting itself, becoming more and more square, more and more imperfect. Like a rhombus becoming a diamond, each angle turned into its adversary, each angle its own very light and savior, knowing still that death was the one and the only that lurked around the corner. The edges smoothed but sharpened, yet; the sides lengthened but evened, still. "O, how?" and "O, why?" it wondered as it grew and shrank, became perfect and imperfect. Would it burn? Would it leave and glow and remember that each and every turn and shade and shadow was one and ever new? (6/27)