19 September 2016

Postcard 67

A witness? A witness to your many lives. Do you remain consistent? And the days forgotten, the gaps and gashes submerged by rising time, or shoved under and drowned? Recall those brave and failed experiments, cardboard boxed and hot highway driven. And the hot flush of anger, the washed out mornings of shame. Love and death and money and each their converse; the hinges that your life folds upon itself. You have been there always -- your eyes, hands, goosebumps. Your mind, your fears, desires, passions. You have been there in and of it by choice and chance. Who has been your witness, you are not enough. You are not and you know that. So who has seen your movement, your love and heartbreak, felt your misplaced wrath? Do you know that you are partnered, by choice and chance, to that strange family of witnesses, that strange dream-bound family? Do you hold a space that by choice and chance you cannot? You are of one body now, and that body will persist ad pass away, a thing between you, holding on like a heartbeat, like respiration, continuous and unthought of.

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