I’ve been crushed. It’s weird how distracted you can be through an illusive grip;
it’s even weirder when you realize it’s
your own hand.
Out of reach into transfiguration—held
together by the reverb of letting go.
How is it that at the end of that rope and in insolent
desolation I’m the most whole I’ve ever been….
times where I felt on top of the world only to be led back to the shallows.
This time is different. The shallows have dried up:
the indifference of what has just become a part of the surroundings and suddenly, I have to begin again.
It isn’t about repetition or being torn and bruised in cyclic detriment, but being cracked, layer by layer,
until nothing becomes something.