Every cell is gathered here, pushing and pulling at each other. There is grip and there is slip. There is consumption, eradication, dissolving. You know it’s there, and it’s here, too. You’ve tied yourself in knots worrying about if you can hold it together or not. Your nerves are frayed, like each failed strand in your grand rope. You can hope. You must cope. Grab hold of the soap and scrub away the nasty.
Isn’t any way to get perfect. That’s just how we’re at. The blood is spilled, it is transferred; stains come out with cold water. But you are twirling. The sheets are wound around you and tether you to the bed. Still your world spins. And you summon thoughts at unique speeds.
There are flaring glares and summoning stares and stolid misunderstanding. But you can sail this sea. You can savor the wind and stay afloat. You can brew the tea of enlightenment. You can find your recipe, and wear stripes with plaid. Everyday, you eat at the table of more knowing. Learn the ways of the masters, and salt their entrees with your own perceptions. Madly we go, but none have to know. When you’re healthiest, you care not what is thought, and you are at peace with the river.
