third year julia mun

Many ancient columns are constructed by stacking drums. Each slab of stone and marble is transported from both distant and near quarries. The resulting column is fluted, and then tapered. It takes days, months, years for it to all come together. Sometimes, and maybe most times, my sister is my column. A constant fixture that elevates the pediments and frames the walls. I am grounded to the earth beneath me, but I can see the landscape around me.

But

There

Are

Thoughts

You

Can’t

Always

Control

Blinding

You

And

You

Fall

Entrapped

In

The

Cracks

of

Stone

Columns collapse — it is inevitable. They’re vulnerable to the cruelty of uncertainty. But even weathered, certain drums remain to stand the test of time. And they can be rebuilt. My sister lifts each drum of the column with me. Certain songs ring in my head, refrains of comfort transforming skeins to strains of clarity. Quotes pave my thoughts, directions for me to follow. The columns in my life draw my gaze upwards and keep me grounded in what is real, what is right.

The Columns