I don’t think I’m precious. Not much beyond dancing dirt buzzing with animistic instincts. Sometimes the gaping scream inside, it gets too wide. The dark empty. The void. The dance between everything has meaning and nothing really fucking matters.
I’ve drifted here. To have this now.
Ironic, it’s a game. My body is merely a play thing. My thoughts are only to entertain. Dungeons and Dragons, no guide book, no master. Trotting around on this spinning sphere. Like it means something, like I’m lucky. Like I should try. Futile. A quick lightning strike or a car crashing into a bike.
I get why the monks do sand paintings. Then they wipe it all away.
Like writing a poem and letting the wind carry it over a cliff.
It’s silly to think I’m some kind of God or something. That’s far too much power. I want to be like the rabbit or the snake. I want to just lay in the sun because it feels good. It’s only slaughter, I’m only a liar. It’s only love.
I just wanted to tell you that you’re really special to me.
But nothing lasts forever. It changes like the weather.
And while I’m here. Just for this very brief moment. I’ll allow myself to just be. Breathe.
The urgency, set it free.