Vert-ical

October 14th, 2020

A gaze outside the window: eighty thousand shades of green. I haven't, cannot, count them; the number neatly suggests itself for the sake of its roundness, the ouroboros of an eight, the open conduit of zero, the way the mouth mimics the shape in the speaking of the thousand. Whole, unyielding, immense. It's a rampage out there, an annihilation by green. Tinges teeter now together, now at odds at every angle vying for the light to lend them further recourse to greenness. What seems at first a single organism is in fact a twist, helices long since untraceable divulging tree, vine, moss, bromeliad --and as leaf-cutter ants march down these chimeras bearing banners emerald, peridot, and tourmaline, still other species shuttle up, or out, or circle round, inching verdant abdomens and fluttering seafoam wings.

The sunlight fades and sets the sky a soup of grayness against which all the green seems only louder, sharper, more assertive of its space. Come the night, however long, or through whatever storms dare churn the land to opaque ruin, the green offers its patience. From nearly nothing, it will fill all crevices, arch over those not yet overwhelmed, it will cover your shame; it will reclaim the fruits of your failure. Green is the substrate. The inhale, the exhale, the respiration, the expiration. It will fuel your desire, deepen your gall. It will spread over your grave.

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