There’s a circle around the waning moon, the smallest I’ve ever seen. And isn’t it interesting that upon reading the word circle, one immediately assumes and understands perfection? For a circle that isn’t perfect, isn’t a circle. We might say that something is round, but that word admits the possibility that what we’re referring to might be approximately round, as in the round river stones, which we know are not perfectly round, or circular, but, having been worn smooth by water, have taken on the beautiful shape of wise expectant mothers. Similarly, we might conceive musically of a round tone, or socially of a family circle, or a circle of friends. But what of a broken circle? Is it still a circle? Don’t we, upon viewing it, naturally want to mend it in the place or places where it has suffered or otherwise come to harm? For who can ignore the plight of a circle that has fallen on hard times? What if the circle has even stopped believing in itself, and is thinking of disintegrating altogether? — which makes one wonder: do circles sometimes end their own lives? And if so, do they disappear without a trace, or is there a way to recognize where the circles have been? Maybe they leave behind a soft glow or outline, and go on pulsing gently in a perfectly circular world of their own. Maybe we are circles, some of us broken, some of us whole.
October 7, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Circles, Compassion, Diaries, Journals, Stones, Suicide