These eyes and this mind see worlds others (who imagine vast differences between us) have never, not only seen, but considered. Don’t ask how those platforms, those alternate vistas, those other-worldly metaphors got opened. The knife that spliced them into reality was rusty and unclean and you wouldn’t want to tear those holes into your pretty skin.
But, on the cutting table in the breaking season, there wasn’t really a better option. So under we go like the dead and near-dying on chloroform. Unforming shapes and spaces as they bend down to touch the realness of the moment’s toes.
We all seven billion stood separated and apart, blinking into the light and against another cold slap-in-the-face wind. We braced ourselves against cold we’d never felt. But in long designated ruts cut into roads we wanted so desperate to remain open — in that debilitating cold — we had no jacket, no cover, no plan against the unknown.
After days and ages, we just shriveled up and packed up and backed out and told ourselves, in our hearts of good intentions and unintentioned endings, things would be alright on the other side.
Has it, I wonder, been all right?
I ask only now on the other side of too late. On the other end of another impressive mistake.
But if I’m mistaken, would I know it through the regret, through self-doubt, and through the inability to let go of the things I think I loved?
I suppose at least the knowing is some kind of homecoming.
Like smoke from a candle signifies that it must still be giving light.
My smoke and ash show some kind of signs of life.