Time and trouble pass like water over the parts of life that matter still, that which cannot move, or, going towards the oblivion of the sea so slowly, never move too far or fast to leave a given moment untouched by their familiar presence. What's taken through the dells and valleys of the days and weeks and hence away from me, the flotsam of experience, traces with its margins the negative space in which all that really matters, is.
That which itself is not matter, but feeling.
Not things that are broken, but toil of mending.
I am a unit of a legion, a cog in a machine, and yet, alone.
The possibility of life, undeniably beautiful, carves into the living the closing doors of chances lost.
And so my landscape flourishes. The water flows as it should. The joy and longing thrive, so that I lack for nothing.
The cup runs over; the table's laid so plentifully it can hardly stand.
The carnage's daily made into another form, that I might keep the soul but shed the sinews.
I wander day and night finding something of my riverbed in unexpected, sidelong glances, in the sudden opening of eyes.
And, always, I know where I am ultimately going: to the sea. To the sea.
Where I will ever drown in those I love.
And float back, bidden by memory.
* * *
It's been a tumultuous stretch of time since I last posted, but something in that tumult's taught me how to love the chaos better. People sometimes ask me what a normal day of mine is like, and I never seem to be able to answer. Perhaps it's because I don't have normal days; perhaps because I don't spend much time looking at the shape of what goes by on a minutious basis. Or I could be full of shit.
Besides, speech is a rolling-mill that always thins out the sentiment. Sometimes it's better to just do spoons.
