Fear when we should be serene, where there shouldn’t be any: in the waves breaking below sunset, odours of dusty books at a resale, droplets of dew-colored gasoline. Between the business laughter and the stillness of the policeman’s baton, swinging & swaying with the rhythm of the sidewalk, verandas stinking of glass eyes and false teeth--
Fear of being found out.
That always fear. Closest during solstice and annular eclipse.
Where does it stem from?—always the lazy & obvious: adolescent insecurities, body-image dysmorphia; patterns of childhood reprisal, manifesting thusly as we age: inability to look in another’s eyes directly, bashful lovemaking duplicities, wolf-pup tucking of the coccyx;
My canopic jars were never much to behold. But this is a pessimistic complaint, strictly speaking—means you have to dig for that something buried eons ago, deep in the ancestry; put in a little elbow grease, under every layer you’ll uncover the source. Just hafta root around till you find those bleached whale bones on the seabed, lying exposed like an unwanted thumbprint, disturbance of kaa, soul, spirit…