Matter

It's time to get moving. There's no time to waste. I wish someone had told me that when I was young. 

I did know that, though. I just felt helpless to do anything about this seeming paralysis...of the mind and therefore, an inability to move my body by putting one foot in front of the other...a moment at a time. 

Imagine what I could have been...today. 

I don't look for platitudes now. They can't provide any sort of comfort. There's no fooling me. Trust me, sometimes, I look to be fooled. Have you tried that? It's an impossible feat. How can you lie to yourself when you already know the truth?

Among the trees, I lay here. You should hear the bustling of the leaves when the wind picks up. I swear it sounds like they're conspiring to bring us all down. But then I remove my heavy minded cap and realize, they're just talking. When will I listen?

I was a fool again, hanging on to someone's every word. I put too much gravitas around his mouth. He was only ever talking and talking, saying nothing. Just empty words. I know their kind and recognize the sounds they make.

What do I do with all of this...feeling? I hear, "Keep writing. And, paint already!" I love and detest that place no one can touch. Maybe I'm not relating in the right way to this inner quiet place. It's a safe place filled with all the real stuff. Why wouldn't I find solace in that?

If I relate in the right way, there's nothing to fear. If I relate in my usual way, I'm just sad. I hate the lack of permamence about anything and everything. But moreso than this, how we never seem to transmute these experiences into...matter.

If my cup is filled with all that is transient now, what will be left of me at my moment of death? What will have materialized by then? Will there be anything of me? Guidalberto Bormolini explained it so well. I felt he was speaking with me directly. I know what he speaks of. It's a language spoken in a particular note that finds my heart's cord so easily, effortlessly. I hear it as truth.

Where he finds beauty and peace, I currently anticipate in fear. There's something in my being I need to overcome or accept or perhaps, transform. It's lonely here...on this planet among the living and the dead. I see things about people and this place and it just saddens me. 

I'm sad for my mother and father. I'm sad for my brothers. For aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. The horror of the situation lies in an impossibility to connect with people on this level. We won't have these conversations...ever, except in the most earthly and superficial way. 

I want to catch that glimpse in the eye...in the eye of the other, that tells me we understand eachother. I don't see it. Which means, there's nothing to build on, to cultivate, to bring to life. It only ever be a seed...and this reality, this horror, sits heavy on my heart.