Not Done Yet

I want to be done. No, not today--sigh. Not yet. But soon. Yes, soon.  And though this constant nagging is so completely annoying, so debilitating even, still, to scream the truth about you--to you, directly--like a maddened character of Clifford Odets' or Tennessee Williams'.  Yes, that's what I want. And I want you to hurt, too.  Hear me and hurt. And then I'll tell you to talk to me. And I'll offer you bandages. And nod. And feel my heart bursting to burst.  My breath--my armor--quivering, I'll nod and hear you tell me you love me.  But I won't really hear you.  I won't hear you over the deafening sound of my own lying. We're twins like that.  

What has happened is this:

I feel more.  And where, exactly, my emphasis lies I decipher is changeable. Just like the day. Just like my breath. Or like Hamlet. And it seems (at least, that's what I often tell myself) like near-death and like coming back to life.  Every second an infinite and thrilling partaking of something. And the moment is shattered by a question: "Of what?" All of this: this life, this consciousness, this breath, this body, this mind, all of it--the cellular-level "IT"--all of it tied to something bigger than me.

The Sounds Of Sanghas

Meditation!

Today

Today I spoke. And I didn't think about it then too much. Now, however, I feel pleased I moved them so.  I was told by one that I spoke "from the heart;" and, another, a tall, intense man named Joe said "Thank you; I understood." He held my hand, and for a bit longer than I expected.  I let go first.

What It's Like Today

I feel! And it's like near-death, like I'm holding on to my last breath. Time feels sharp. Every second, like a frozen moment. That cold burning. And my thoughts go back to him. Again, him! He whom I'm afraid to ask "Can we really be doing this?"  He yields to me and murmurs a tender affirmative in my ear, and I melt.