the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Month: June, 2013

Que serait le monde sans…

I read today that it would be a good idea if, every once in a while, 19 years I think, we cleaned out our vocabulary to avoid becoming prisoners of it. Prisoners of words. Without words, what is inside of our heads? I asked the girl selling yoga mats if she thought in Vietnamese or English and, after thinking about it for a bit, she said both. But she couldn’t describe it to me, and she didn’t try.

What would it be like to be in words? To be surrounded by everything they meant without reading or hearing a single word? I think that is what Brahman is. I think it must feel like the safest, warmest, most comforting place above the world. Or below it. Around it. To be all around the world at once. To hold everything inside our belly. Would we burst? Would it be too much or finally enough? Would we be lonelier than ever or forget all the faces we have seen and hands we have touched? Would we still feel our bodies? I think to be alive without a body is what gods feel like. Are we in cages of bone and flesh, muscles that hold us together and move us only in the smallest ways? We are so weak, die easily, but we can dream and accomplish and dream more with our minds like gods we can be without bodies only minds and minds without words! The limits are endless. Without limits, there is all, but I don’t even know what that means, because I reside, small and timid within my ribs, warmed by blood so easily poisoned and lost, and I cower within my skin and fat, afraid of what I could do without it. Always afraid. A choice. We don’t do anything we don’t want to do. But what if we don’t know what we want anymore? We have been told so many things over and over again, with the last palm against dry skin, it heaves, and we forget our dreams, a hidden water rushes in our ears. What used to feed our dreams, now only scares us. I feel hatred towards my stomach that only consumes, the thoughts of food and thighs touching until I am about to be sick until I consume more, until I am compliant and like a cat fed prey in tin cans, I grow soft and complacent. Sad and still within my blind, lethargic content.


Something is lost every time you don’t say, “I love you”

and say, “Thanks for calling” instead.

More than losing you,

I am afraid of not hurting as much as I’m supposed to when you’re dead.