© Argishti Khachik
In the very center of a long, flurry of a letter from a dear friend, was a central core of low pressure. A swirl of self-revelation stopped abruptly, and before starting up again, became calm for a blink of this eye of the storm:
“…i so enjoy a cup of guyaki yerba mate’s pure empower mint with a drop of honey. and you know, i use my teabags twice, not because i doubt the abundance of the universe, but because i am grateful for it. i don’t know why i am writing this… oh well.”
This simplicity is the cloud that parks over your head and douses you with its reality in the middle of a rant. You shake off the water of it and walk away—the shock, the suddenness of it enough to make you forget what you’d taken exception to.
It’s the tiniest nutmeat—the hors d’oeuvre to accompany drinks at the party for the multitudes—prior to the courses of fishes and loaves.
In the midst of the desperate scrambling and cramming in of things into the time of our world, our country, our lives, this is the hand that stops the pendulum. You look up at the lack of ticking, draw in a tiny breath and hold it, expecting death. Time explodes in your face. In a good way. It’s all been a joke.
There’s time, there’s plenty of time in this lifetime of your lifetimes.
Your voice is heard and answered. Your work gets done. Your life gets lived as it’s meant to be lived…
…all in the context of exploded time.