Between them, you almost don't believe it's happening. Not to you. Not now. "It didn't happen before," you say, and you go on with normal.
But they insist, and then they overtake you, overcome you, and there is nothing else in the world, no one else but you, the pain, the wordless poem about life. You start to rest, take the mental reprieve between, preparing, accepting the inevitable, relaxing into change.
They are real now; you almost don't believe, but their strength keeps building and you know it is just a foreshadowing of a straining, breathless end - that is not an end at all; it is a beginning.
Life stops moving in between. Time freezes; there is too much eternal at stake to notice the seconds ticking by. The same seconds you can't help but notice as you notice everything. Your life flashes before your eyes. It is not what it was five minutes ago, you are not who you were then either - Can any of this be possible?
You dangle on this spinning spider's thread between now and forever and impatience and too soon, and it comes and it goes and it rises and falls and morning comes before you realize, and you'll be in your own skin again.
The stars are falling tonight. The rain is falling. Is the sky falling too? Suspended below heaven, you are falling too, hoping - hoping God knows, He's near, He'll catch you between.
Slowly you open the door. The between is now again.
I've been reading through Annie Dillard's "Teaching a Stone to Talk" this week before bed. I've been loving it. I think my stream-of-consciousness is picking up her voice a bit. Forgive me, please, if it's a travesty.
More to come, I am sure.
(Image © SXC)