It's not the stillness, the speed, or the possibility of slow. It's not the length, width, or the depth of this ark we build. It's not the what-ifs, or the we-wills. It's not in the details, of how the procession into our tomorrow happens. It's not our tomorrow. It's not how the beginning of this celebration will end. And if there's no end, though there's always an end, it's not about the beginning. It's not about the rules we don't make, or the ways we know too well, or about the ease of our desires and existence. It's not about the haves or the nots, or what's missing between our lines. It's only, only, our today. And only is what fills this ark, because anything else would be a burden for buoyancy as palpable as this. Only is a promise that can be kept. And what is anything, if it can't be kept? So I promise you only today, at a time, as a covenant to our May. It's only our November, and only is an everything I'd like to keep.
(to be read with 14:40 Walking Here, Two Shadows Went)
Surfers know the strength it takes to let the ocean do its thing to your body as you find yourself sinking in its swallow. The chaos of natures mutilation only escalates when you fight the inevitable, the next ton of force in line to keep you below surface. And when you're finally able to find yourself out of the inside, and into the air outside, you inhale the assumption that this was a reminder that you've been wrestling with the Gods.
But the truth is in the exhale. We're all only wrestling with ourselves, in Gods backyard.
The mat that covered the bathroom floor, slightly dulling the echo, is gone. And it's also colder in here, not because it's empty, but because the few items that have stayed in my life have decided to move in an opposite direction, in angst of my directionless. And if before I move to where it's warm you should decide to close this door, with me on the side of the uncovered bathroom floor, I'll have nothing left but my echo - louder than what has left me behind.