what does a moment hold, if not an infinite amount of space to exist in, left out for obscurity? is there such a thing as a perfect defining moment of presentness? how do we name it, if not in small pieces: the drowsiness of early-waking, the warmth of the first sip of a hot drink, the smell of the world after it rains. in a way, present is everywhere. we’re always surrounded by it, this ever-constant, this moment, and now this, even here.
the vanishing point of our history is right here, in this present presence, here and there and in every place where we remember our names, where our whole worlds come alive, begin again, begin anew, calling out: come quickly now to meet me, and who are we to refuse? we have never been ones to patiently wait for the world to reach us, no, we take the world into our arms and we call it ours, we call it home, on instinct, all heart, as easy as breathing.
and isn’t it strange, a time like this, where wanting to live as we know how, as we have, is something closer to a dream, than a reality?
in a time like this, there is an unavoidable emptiness, or maybe the opposite, overpowering and overbearing, both pieces of something too far off, on the edge of disappearance. in a time like this, it is hard to even imagine the spring, like too many insurmountable winters have come and buried us. like we are lost in all that cold, in air so thick with the ghosts of hypotheticals, that we are left blinded by the whiteout, left to try and make out the shapes of constant familiarities: where you have come from, where you will go. think of your home, once native to wildflowers, to you, standing struck-still in the early indecisive frost, growing with no place left to go. don’t you know the narrative of something like this? don’t we all know the story? winter is winter no matter who you are. how lost do you have to feel, when do you forget that spring is coming?
is there something in you that makes you different, now? from who you were before, what you have gone through? and the haunting question of: is that believable, is it enough? is it too much of a reach? that you are able to be both before and after, reaching for this new existence, trying not to falter, reaching for this reckless plenitude of light? how many pieces of this story can you still not say aloud? the story that is both silence and recognition, responsibility? what i’m trying to say is: are you changed? and how do you know? where do you even start? how do you stand still? how do you hold all of it? where do you put it down?
we cannot hide from time, no matter how much we try, because how do you hide from a homecoming? how do we not come back again and again to each thing we cannot make change, even with every possibility we are capable of? to feel like we create only echoes, even if we can split the earth, disquiet the air, deny every boundary before us – because what are we if we cannot be everything, each and every piece of what we want to become?
history has had us, but not here, not now, not anymore. maybe there is no better way to speak of the present than to say that we are here, now, then, there, always the same in some sort, how we are always looking for answers. always looking for the heart tucked away in the fields. to exist, everywhen, in all of this space, where if nothing is ever spoken, nothing is ever changed, then how it is then just another place to burn in, another place to vanish by morning.
when does life begin? when can you hold it with both hands and call it your own? when do you decide to stop waiting? what happens when there is nothing left but the waiting, dawn after dawn after dawn? what happens then, there, now, with you, and me, and all of this space to exist in? what else is there, if not every dream, if not every possibility?
what else can we do, if not to step forward, into all that light?
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