Constellations

(discovered Jun 16, 2018 in a notebook ... probably originally from ~ Sept 2012)



Sometimes I'm Abraham,
sometimes the Calm Potato.
Sometimes, I'm the wailing woman,
sometimes, the stars that set.

day 2

As if a constant scream was not the only way to remember who you are.

--

a tender compassion

tears somewhat exhausted
the past is never coming back for us

a tender compassion
arms reaching up

sand gone
hair washed
all else is "normal" again

when we wake up tomorrow,
what is the difference between our time together
and a vivid dream that fades within the hour?

what was it that we felt so strongly
that we almost peeled ourselves in 2?

Resistance subsiding
memories fading
inevitably

all eroding into now
with what's left of our identity
myself and I
no longer on opposite sides
we finally grieve together

In custody of reality: Day 0

I didn't want to wake up in this grayness
And yet time still marches on
Waking up in a familiar place was surprisingly easy
Getting up, surprisingly hard

I drag my body
like a screaming baby
through our usual day

crying NO to showers
washing feet
washing hair
getting dressed

Patiently, I will myself through time and space

NO NO NO NO
I carry myself under my arm through this friction of protest

NO because it's not the right shower
NO because the sand on the feet is the last of what's left of the beach
NO because we won't wash your hands out of our hair
NO because if we get rid of that top, you can never like it again.

And yet these rooms are the same as before
old habits churn along familiarly
eerily comforting

NO to accepting the now as the future
NO NO to the dying of last night
NO NO NO NO to the custody of present reality

I stumble blindly through time with a crying child
following only the well-worn patterns of habit.
compassionately leading myself along
until the new real world inevitably embraces us.
until bereft shrieking fades into sobs.

We all know how the future will go
The reality of now will move in to occupy, displace, reanimate as its own

With time,
the sand of the beach will fall through my mind
washing my brain
like an hourglass
until clear of the past

mindwash
sandwash
brainwash

It's just a matter of time

Time is more patient than a howling child.
The latter eventually exhausts.

Now? The passing of time itself
like an hourglass
made of sandpaper
under my skin
a horrible cleansing

I am exhausted.

The screaming child inside
resists bitterly
retaliating against
perceived complacency
clinging desperately to identity through fading memory

retaliating at every moment the outside world moves along invitingly as if to say that nothing's any different. That nothing's wrong.

As if everything was fine and is and will be fine.
as if there were no need for a child to cry so bitterly
no need for a child to cry
no need for a child
no need to cry
no need

as if you were still there