Pages

Nov 21, 2005

Monday November 21st

In random intervals, rays of sunshine spilled forth from the billowy clouds. It is a dog-tired day. Collectively, I may have had seventeen hours of sleep between Friday and today. No rest for the wicked and weary. Is it really only the busy, the tired, the pursued and the pursuing shuffling through this world? I wear my restlessness under my eyelids, heavy and dull.

And I am reawakened to love. Times before I've thrown it away, let it burn, and once revisited I would find only a pile of ashes that could never be reconstructed into that which it once was, something whole, something tangible. I took it for granted and my mind was rarely still still, while it shifted here and there searching for something, cloaking that which could not be let out. I remained static when I needed to grow. I waited for truth to jump up and slap me in the face . . . and in waiting I played the lead role in the perpetuation of a lie.

Now, I no longer move to silence the flies. I've loosened my grip on the noose and let it fall from my hands. I will plunge my fingers deep into my chest cavity at the sternum and pry. Skin rips, bones crack; smell my bone dust. Touch my wet, foul insides. This pain is a numb one compared to the sense that humps on the back of distrust, jealousy and insecurity.

I am no longer alone in my balance of the ugliness and sheer perfection of the earth. Standing inside an empty dream I feel nothing, finally aware of myself, and know that I am there.

My presence counts. And my presents count.