there is this enormous space inside that I cannot see.
I sense it labor in me in unsaid ways.
can’t even identify it or me as it, but it is there,
like a burden brought forth from a previous life.
don’t have keys, a sense of purpose or direction with it
but it is basic and through me in some unknowable ways.
for it doesn’t have personality,
can’t find a behavior that expresses it or brings it forth.
it is a scene from a story that is dramatic as I sense it
but cannot say lines or find meaning from within it.
it is a lump inside, maybe a sorrow, or an undeniable guilt.
can’t get a fix or a mood or an entry that repeats itself.
I feel it as exclusive but others must have theirs also
yet nobody has topic, theme, or a set of character traits.
it just is and I am waiting for it to brake me open,
maybe to complete me into all my questions,
maybe shred me of the interactional games and the pretends.
it doesn’t come from commentary overheard.
it has been like a freight-train out of soft sounds of forest.
it has come as celestial sounds out of blood through skin.
it has been the gong of tears, though nothing approaching.
it has organs in me that work for another force through me
it grabs me without limbs, takes my gravity away.
I don’t have spacial and permission is not an option.
words are at the dump,
tears come at me for where I then look.
I did not know the vastness
of emotional landscape before me.
the essence of anyone is a brilliance of incomprehensibility.
why to exist as separates and then play into familiar’s lair?
why to go on an excursion around the mountain of being?
I am weary, wisdom takes my journey away with gist.
I am birthing and dying with each breath on display
but displaced as if I came for a story
and wound up as wordless verbs surfacing for air.
I have no bouquet of finality with clarity to give you.
we all carry on,
to keep this muted oneness alive, but estranged.
I ask you only to tread water in this,
in the same ocean as you find your motive,
your reason for bathing in the unknown.
your wings or your fins, your scales or your feathers,
give me a sense of flight or swim by not telling me.
I study what can’t be realized to get there.
every place I can identify has failed me except to leave.
people call it going forward, I call it sighted darkness.
night vision is not for retention or relief,
but to go beyond what knowing can know,
to be beyond what self-consciousness can produce,
to fill the void by not avoiding or escaping it,
to be before acknowledgment or experience claims,
to be the conduit of giving as emptiness provides,
to be the joyless joy with simplicity of being.
I have given you a bouquet of my over-thinking.
inhale its fragrance as of you and yours.
indulge yourself with the throwaway meanings that come
and then timelessly carry on as if we are all one . . .