The written word: Just one shape touching another & spaces between for as long as you let me.
No matter what I do it’s not all here. I left some by my front door on bended knee searching for my keys, or at the foot of the bed as I raced to get to someone else’s door, or maybe on the chair in my living room, that looking place where I open myself to visions of the lives that came before me and will continue long after.
I can collect myself like any resourceful substance and have understood that in order to grow, the inevitable choice opposing death, I can only do so by digressing, also death but different. I need me to gather more of me, but this collection process isn’t perfect. It isn’t even clean.
In the spirits’ effort for immortality it grabs at all that it can on its way out. Like any force or wave, the current is pulling at the weak willed foundation of others. For all involved, this process is one of surrendering. As I enter I am penetrating, but then it is I who is stirred and swirling, like the pigment imparted by tea leaves in water.
This is immortality: uniting with the source, finding an element, attracting, connecting and inevitably departing. I am hopeful that I can retrieve most of my goodness, the habits of happiness, the continued patterns floating on the surface of my breakfast bowl, what lies beyond and in view from the edge of my windowsill that I have taken the time to admire and appreciate, the gratitude for all that has been created for me.
But it’s not all there either for pieces of me are still living in my scattered imagination. Yes, it is inappropriate and makes me mad, but it’s all I have.