I am practically spewing open. Thoughts, poems, ideas, colors, music. There’s a desire to catch all of it and also a knowing of the impossible-ness of such a task. Things are always happening, flowing over me, through me. I am reminded of [a loved one’s] story, a vision of hands submerged in the swift body of a river. She watched herself close fist after first, cyclically coming to find that she cannot grasp that which is not hers. How comically bittersweet, to be immersed so intimately with cataclysmic wonder, incapable of capturing it. I suppose there is no “later”, so there can be no “saving it for later”. I’ve found myself, as of late although hardly a rarity, adorned with stories that are so full of aliveness that they feel nearly secret, both because the words fall so dumbly short and because the bliss of such presence is akin to making love. Stories that cannot be adequately shared because the sacredness of experience exists only within its birthplace. And yet, I must share them, at the very least their essence. For what are we to do with our stories if not relive them in appropriate timing, reflect and illustrate meaning in their half-deadness, and gift them as flowers of remembrance. There will always be more to say, but better to open as the mouth of a river, then to hoard all the jewels of impressions behind the boat of our tongues. It’s helpful to remember that listening is a choice, reading is a choice. Consuming what i have to offer remains a choice. Creating, writing, sharing in some capacity no longer feels like a choice. I am walking, down the roads and up the hill, while music of poetry and lettering of enunciation spin as a record in my mind, except it no longer sings the same song. It is new, every moment, glittering off the newness of my own experience. There are moments of closed fisted-ness, where I attempt to return to a now muddied bank, searching for lost keys at dusk. Occasionally I catch silver lips reflecting moonlight but more often the “going back to” leaves me dry and fruitless. The moon becomes “mine” when I adopt the truth that there is no “going back to”. More slippery than trout or eel, thought glides behind infinity mirrors, lurking in that one place that you can almost picture, but can’t quite. Poetry, on the other hand, exists as the mirror itself, every time I approach her, searching behind the sink and in the cabinet for that painting I started, wanted to start, could not start, could not finish, her inspiration evades me because I have not yet looked up. The poetry is everywhere, given that the emotion is everywhere, given that the heart is everywhere. And the mind, who functions as the dutiful scribe, must not be mistaken for the poetry itself. To be stolen into exploitation before the coffee becomes cold is to miss the harvest altogether, patience and non-attachment ensure that was is meant to be kept, and what is meant to be shared, transpires as such. As for the rest, trust that even in its now secret nature, its braiding personality, perspective and pattern, awaiting at any moment to sprout once more into the earth of awareness, so that it’s teachings may be breathed once more.
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