After todayʻs accomplished, hanging-on-the-fridge get-through, I really feel just one weekend getaway away from my own peripheryʻs expansion into omnipotence and I admire having these five senses. But on top, surrounding, beneath, among, between, around, I would rather be that consciousness to blanket all things that slip past me while waiting in line toward becoming some more of that wrinkled foliage of chronological dominance. Like this, show me wonder, everywhere.
Really today, formally ideal to flee this part of existence into something fabled but still fabulous. Humanely of course, so not to worry, but traversing time and space seems to engross all I hope for before I go back to widespread nebulae, or even a high C # only eunichs can reach, whenever that may be (righting the constraints of being birthed a human).
Why not start by etching my lines of ancestry onto oracle bones? (Makes most sense regarding placement of genealogy for commemorative reason)…
Eventually, I myself will be joyously unearthed, by accident, from a pit of turtle plastrons and porpoise sediment. Eventually, my rediscovery will be the birth of the third gender. Finally.
The good life of timeliness: for every death of sun on the horizon, having flat-lined on the coast of skin burns and orange, after me, having left behind my upstaged-flack regarding growth into amorphous cloud shapes: all it takes is getting used to: I, peculiar, like to suck in air like the audible jealousy of a locust in peak season, hanging from my own olive branches: my innards a-flood, non-stop ’til my organz buzz: my exoskeleton lithe on the bed, as my rest’s in Huahine admiring the most beautiful lagoon in the world: just me and the mermaids.
Exploring my feasibility as the adult set of molars in the large mouth of a wooly mammoth; impervious, the prehistoric stay-puts, having been blasted by every element with radical and precise finiteness.
And writing, as usual, has helped me ween myself of something I came to familiar comfort with too quickly. I am not sure of the rationale or not. I do know, though, that letting go of the one you love is the most beautiful gift we may give as humans, simply so: acknowledging him or her as another human being and… release. It is by far the highest form of respect, by far the noblest interaction that may take place at any time, anywhere. Any attachment to a lover is in fact, not love at all, eventhough it may seem so.
Today we face the exacting milieu of dogmas that fool us, as we cling desperately to significant others, lest they feel like they are not a priority, lest we doubt that they do not deserve our fullest adoration. All these fear-based socializations are easily dropped, fortunately, and we have the beautiful challenge of turning love into meditation. We have the ability to forget our last encounter and indulge a new and aware meeting upon reunion. We have the gift of fogetting our lover when parting, only to find him, again, newly and fresh and present.
Having been liberated, my heart beats noticeably slower, a new calm having set within me, everything clear, and no fuss. Circling. Afloat, in a garden of delicacies.
To put it best:
“Attachment and love never go together; commitment and attachment never go together. Love goes with unattachment. Then love has a purity of the other world. Then love is absolute essence, absolute pureness, innocence. And then there is a commitment. That commitment is eternal.”
By Emily Dickinson
Safe in their alabaster chambers,
Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
Sleep the meek members of the resurrection.
Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.
Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;
Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;
Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence,
— Ah, what sagacity perished here!
Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
Diadems drop and Doges surrender,
Soundless as dots on a disk of snow.