groping through the satin sheets, I feel something I think I once knew…. but when I grasp hold of it, I realize it isn’t what I thought… It’s just an amalgamation of cat hair, dust, air, delusion, and memories…
I am sure I have written about this before, but it always seems to have a new and different title….
some call it love; others, community… some don’t give it a word, because they are so afraid of it.
I have spent my whole life searching for and experiencing it. Sometimes I sit alone in my apartment and play with its constantly morphing existence in my hands… I let it seap through my fingers, like sand. Then I pick it up as clay and shape it into a bowl with a little water inside it. I immediately throw it at the TV and watch as it evaporates into steam the split second before smashing through the screen.
Sometimes it feels heavy in my heart in a way that makes people call it depression, down, and other words that begin with D. Other times it’s so light and fluttery, I feel like a dragonfly got caught in my lungs.
Right now, it’s all misshapen and confusing– like a Picasso painting and a multimedia performance art collage all in one. I don’t know how to hold it, but I put out my hand anyway, as if by instinct, I will somehow figure it out.
But, I’ll admit, I don’t think I will ever figure it out. I feel more and more alone in this quest as the years go by. I watch the others pair up and leave the journey, while I sit here alone, not sure of what to do or say; not sure of how to hold my body… I play the part of the strong independent type, but we all know how untrue that story is…
So for now, I just turn over, find my way out of the web of satin sheets past your still sleeping body, and make some coffee.
I am sure I have written about this before, but it always seems to have a new and different title….
some call it love; others, community… some don’t give it a word, because they are so afraid of it.
I have spent my whole life searching for and experiencing it. Sometimes I sit alone in my apartment and play with its constantly morphing existence in my hands… I let it seap through my fingers, like sand. Then I pick it up as clay and shape it into a bowl with a little water inside it. I immediately throw it at the TV and watch as it evaporates into steam the split second before smashing through the screen.
Sometimes it feels heavy in my heart in a way that makes people call it depression, down, and other words that begin with D. Other times it’s so light and fluttery, I feel like a dragonfly got caught in my lungs.
Right now, it’s all misshapen and confusing– like a Picasso painting and a multimedia performance art collage all in one. I don’t know how to hold it, but I put out my hand anyway, as if by instinct, I will somehow figure it out.
But, I’ll admit, I don’t think I will ever figure it out. I feel more and more alone in this quest as the years go by. I watch the others pair up and leave the journey, while I sit here alone, not sure of what to do or say; not sure of how to hold my body… I play the part of the strong independent type, but we all know how untrue that story is…
So for now, I just turn over, find my way out of the web of satin sheets past your still sleeping body, and make some coffee.
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