Someone has figured out what happens when you build a room with mirrors on the ceiling, the walls, and the floor and nothing else in it. The room is pitch black. Someone else stuck a light in that same room and the mirror reflected the light forever, like a hallway Einstein might have dreamt. When this physicist turned off the light, it appeared to go out and then out and then out on and on forever, just like what happens after we die. Somewhere out there, the light still has an attosecond, another has a picosecond, another has a millisecond, and so on. Just like what happens when we live.
When you put an object in that room, it is stuck like a portrait: cattle lowing at another dawn, the shrill wince of a silver bowl devoted to fruit, the cello-shaped woman whose back must hold her entire history. Still lives. Just like how we commit our memories, leaving them behind while we shine on.
Until now, the last post on Seamstress for the Band was about looking for something that may not exist and never finding it. In case this is the last post, I wanted to leave you finding something, even if it’s the same thing, again and again and again. A room filled with music bouncing off the walls, the shadows and angles of two women trying to write outside the box, a chair for you here, and the light left on.
posted by holly.
Thank you for listening. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being the light.