Beneath the securities of good nights and safe houses, lived fear. Fear dressed in Existential fangs always sat at the outside waiting to get in. The sweet smell of apple pie and coffee seemed a good enough shield to the elephant that sat in at the edge of the room, flicker of flame and wax. Shadows have always lurked beneath the savory light of ‘everything’s fine if you send hopes and prayers.’ Then one day, everything changed. Not the flash of atomic light we dreamt of in cold war beds, terrified with nightmare, and the comfort of mothers floor. No, it changed the way you would expect a tad pole to become a frog, unseen but heard for miles across platforms of social distancing. The veil became thin, and the emperor ran across abandoned golf courses, naked and scared.

This had always been the dream, the liminal birthing canals connected to the ethernets of the universe, tearing illusion from its perch.. the Eagle remembered it was an Eagle and tore apart his jingoist ways, for a chance to taste the flesh of Salmon once again. The metaphors painted slow motion chrysalises, sparked from the time outside of time, where dream and awake fancy dance on early morning vistas.. or perhaps, it is the prayers of Ghost Dancers awaking the Ancestors for aid. The realist thing about this, is that it is not real. It is not matter. It can not cast shadow, or shine light, yet sits on the edge of hills, threading and weaving, a silent killer. A silent reminder….

Pay attention to what the frogs have to say, they may have all the answers we need.

Be safe. Be kind. Be gentle.