Frozen bay

Thumbnail image from the walls of the National Palace in Sintra, Portugal

I’m not sure if anything needs to be said about this, or if that is just some vestige of the harness. It took me a few to get it out, what needed to be said. What was pressing on me with the weight of the dead. It was the weight of the dead.

And so it needed to be said. Still there are things that move the silver strings. Silent things that want to move the silver strings.

I guess I’m tired of giving voice, even though I know it’s my choice. I’ve just been pushing all day, like carrying a boat across the bay that’s frozen. Is it something I’ve chosen? Feels more like resistance to the light. Feels more like something tight.