Open The Curtains

I begin giving things away. A long time resident of my head, I tidy up, fold the past away, and gather what feels like a new method of thought—to admit that we just don't know, never knew, where we are going. Passengers waiting for departure.

A sense of the invisible in the corner of my vision, a glint of gold. A
secret life is moving between the trees; they are always whispering.
In the solitude, behind the rocks, in the tall grass, and below the
surface of water, meaning passes silently.

This is not dreaming. It's watching yourself in a dream. The way children play. Draw the curtains. Open the curtains. Vanishing or fusing? What course will this take? When the time comes that I can't feed myself or get up from where I lay?

To Find Words

I have nothing to say. There is nothing to say is another way to say it. Or, still another way, there is so much to say, and so many ways, should I begin? May I begin? Do I need to ask your permission? I promise you delight. I promise you a real good time. I promise you the best. This will be the very best, the best you've ever had. I am a ride, a roller coaster, the fun house. I'm what frightens you in the palace of horror. I'm pleasure. I'm a drive in the backseat of a car late at night when the moon is full and everyone else is asleep. I'm sex. I'm compassion. I'm the tears on your cheek when you say goodbye forever to that handsome but pitiful character in the movie you love. Now I'm anger and outrage, fire engine red inside your brain. I'm choking you with rage. I'm the pain that dwells in your gut which you cannot express to anyone. I'm the ache in your heart. It hurts. You hurt. You cannot speak. Lie down, make yourself comfortable, adjust the light. I'll speak for you.

So many stories. So many voices. All in need. In need of comfort. I am your comfort. I hold you. I let you go. I am true to you. I am a secret. I explain everything. I seduce you. You lose yourself. I am what you have lost. Your elusive past. Your fleeting present. Your irresistible and horrifying future. I am the little things in life. And the big things. I am lyrical. I am logical. I am steady. I am faithless. I am prosaic. I am hard. I am tender.

Here

Somewhere. Over there, in the dark, under cover, out of range, around the bend, on the floor, against the wall, through the night, off the cliff, inside out, near the end, far from true, close to you. . .

Is somewhere only where there is some symbolic exchange – the context of I’m here, you’re there and somewhere is elsewhere? Or, are we somewhere now, and what we have yet to experience is elsewhere?

What is out there? Others in their “hereness.” What about way out there – where space squeezes itself so thin that there is a slit in the horizon calling all life to come in and cease.

Or, there is a station for thoughts parting, leaving in paragraphs, leaving in single words, going on journeys to find the unnamed, preprejudiced responses to this question,
What was it i was wondering. . . .