When I stop to consider the facts they astonish me. There you are couched in your own skin, and here I am in mine. No matter how close, we must each do our own living. Your heart cannot be persuaded to pump my blood. My lungs will not consent to breathe for yours. It is an odd arrangement. Inside me a mansion of memory and anticipation. A place other people may visit, like a museum. Inside you, a similar mansion. That I can visit and with your permission gaze at pictures on the wall. But only until closing time. And is this not a strange predicament? This seeming and inescapable individuality? The hard shell of ‘I’ that we live inside like soft-bodied sea creatures. When did we choose this? And on whose ill-advice? How different the world would be, if we could waft through different identities as easily as the wind inhabits the trees. Then the woman selling flowers at the street corner would be me. And the crumpled leaf of the half-blown rose in her bucket would be me. And the man reaching into his back pocket to pay for the bouquet – me. Me. Me. Then I would not be ‘I’ any more. And neither would you. No not at all and never again. Once out of the bottle, no genie of sound mind ever chooses to return, to such cramped, uncomfortable quarters.
November 28, 2014
November 28th, 2014 at 9:44 pm
How beautiful! This, I suppose, is what the mystics have – and what seekers everywhere seek: dissolution.
November 28th, 2014 at 9:59 pm
A lyrical predicament.
November 29th, 2014 at 7:27 am
A thought I’d never entertained before came to me as I reflected on this enchanting piece of prosetry; the romance of God.
November 29th, 2014 at 12:29 pm
So glad to see your writing again! I devour it. > > Inside me a mansion of memory and anticipation. > Sent from my phone
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November 29th, 2014 at 9:26 pm
To be able to see all and everyone as ‘none other than the Self’…..
December 9th, 2014 at 1:44 pm
Love your prose/poetry. Profound and beautiful – what more can we ask for?