Prayer

May our skin be porous enough to absorb the moment

Our eyes soft enough to take it all in

And our smiles bright enough to light our way

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And in the silence I have learnt

That truth before is still

truth now

Even if the sound hid it for a

while

And in the silence I have learnt

That some friends before still friends now

and some friends before not friends now

And in the silence I have learnt how

to tell the difference

And in the silence I have learnt to

Feel the hurt and absorb it to

Dissect the bruise and question what it is about it exactly that makes me hurt and to find that thin strong thread of core truth and follow it to the point where it points out where my wound is and then further to where it understands how to help me heal

And in the silence I found an inward journey that went on for centuries and knew everything it needed to know instinctively

And in the silence I found an aching sadness that nothing is ever truly found that nothing is ever truly understood

But in this silence I also found a quiet joy in realizing that nothing is really ever truly lost. That it is right here, all the time. In this silence

And in this silence I found a power in the stillness

It is looking without watching. It is hearing while gently listening. It is a complacent passive understanding in observance

It is knowing,

Really knowing

I don’t

Count minutes; I count moments

I count sunrises, sunsets and

and

laughter, the knowing and the glowing shared connections

of mealtimes squished around the table- extra chairs please!

-the timelessly terrific, the

absolutely divine

-the laughing until crying

and offcourse -the fullyfed satisfied sighing

I don’t see the connective tissue of your eyes but the connection it inspires

the windows to your heart and mind; how they say everything in an instant and sometimes fly a million miles away distant

I don’t count time; it would compartmentalize that instant in a way that makes it ever distant.

Like a picture of a painting isn’t a painting at all, or how

a message to a loved one isn’t the same as a phonecall

When we could all choose to be here

-nearer to the Now that is so fleeting,

constantly appearing and disappearing

like a spark or a glimpse or an echo having just arrived

for an instance and then it’s gone into the always-seeable distance

like an evermoving wave always rolling with the times

we could just get on our boards, wait for it, paddle paddle jump and ride

I think

We’re all just surfing time

Life death life cycle

I stepped into the rabbit hole and

my soul lost its gravity and fell into

itself and updownflipside

-brace yourself for this scary ride

more scrambled than the eggs that you were cooking even if you tried

imagine what it would be for your imagination to imagine imagination then you have a glimpse into what it feels like to live as me 3 layers of thought away I don’t think what I think or what you think I think what I think you think I think and in that distance that out of breath belly distance

I forgot how to feel my way in the world

compartmentalized thoughts cut off and fragmented in their dust specs glisten in the sun trying to find a sentence but then it all

scrambles into one like a race with no end a breathing in and hysteria as if the

world was in pieces I’ve already accessed dementia the memories defeated what’s left is what’s left is a scrambled egg muttontop achey legs and stickchops

so just brace yourselves as all the words rush in as separate pieces and the world dissentegrates and we watch from a distant distance ceaseless

You keep saying

That time will tell but

why

can’t I be the one to tell my own time? True that

if it’s right then the fiction of it will disintegrate but if it’s right

for me then surely I should be the one to

distinguish my own facts from the fiction in light of my subjectivity?

Sometimes I feel as if time will not tell until it says something you want to hear but what if time is telling all the time and it’s just not what you are ready to allow?

Put on your

Game face ready to start the race and

Speak the part that speaks rather than the brittle raw art of the heart time to speak the speaks that speak the words that communicate the things that make movement

Time to move with it and see the commercial from the conscious that which connects and carved the expression of our faces that which is brutal and snappy not broken and crappy but on it like the edge of a pin on the skin of a floating balloon the creased eyes before impact the invisible boom time to speak that which speaks instead of only the gloom enough of the victim time to answer to instinct and enough is enough time to get to the tough and make our own steps and get with it

Time to realize that time is gone already while you were writing this. Time to put down the phone let go of that wish and make it alone because you certainly got this

sarcasm is best

Misunderstood because it borrows

humility from the hundred eyes broadcasting and everyone seems to learn

a little bit- more- than they would have if there was no distress

When anger floating without cause is the cause of self destruction just like steps without a foothold on the ground cannot cause disruption just like change

always had a way to push against the current just like current was electric meaning intensely powerful just like the words that make these paragraphs intently digital

And there are words around everything

Words that sink and the ones that swim

But how do we know the way?

How do we put ourselves in a place where we

Are completely still?

So that we might see without blur and in the way of the will?

How do I know this forward is of my own steps and if the river moves me then do I move with it or stop?

And if I stop then will I sink?

How do I know where the seabed is when I’m paddling so fast that sand is everywhere and the ground can’t find its place?

How will I learn how to see if I cannot find my face?