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Towards that beauty
we sail, half-mast
in dignified mourning
for the safe shore we
turned our backs on,
on freedom that comes in waves
and an innate promise that
sometimes lies about distances
and tastes like saltwater.

Somewhere, a part of us knew
that the days we were burning
would be the past of a life
that was coming. A time merely
to look back on, and love,
the way we understood it then,
would glimmer like beads of dew
in the wide open daylight of
what the future that arrived
revealed to us about ourselves.
That the stories we repeated,
raw and unresolved, over smoke
and expensive noise, would
later be just one of many filters
to a vision, and we would be
watching this world with
our hearts pulled in a direction
for reasons we cannot enunciate.

We still believe in what was
promised us back in the days
when there was no past
to lament, no stubborn mistakes
that stick to our perceptions
like paint on silk. We ask all
these illuminated questions
not because the answers
would redeem us, although
they do, but because all things
are bound to one another
and it’s how we get reminded
that we speak the language
of the universe that we are
certain is listening.

And towards that point
where the light gathers,
we faithfully make our way,
stumbling, the way untrained
faith sometimes stumbles,
taking it upon ourselves
to chase a bliss that someone
once told us we were worthy of,
that we would never have
believed otherwise, if it were
something we merely wanted
instead of a prophecy waiting
to be claimed.

From “Mila Kunis for Dior” by photographer Mikael Jansson


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