Over the last few days
I have gone from sick,
to sick and weak,
to sick, weak, in pain, and tired
to fine;
I'm healthy as I've ever been,
and rested.

I seem to
have this connection
to the weather.
Just before
it's going to rain,
by which I suppose
I mean a few days at most
(?),
I feel anxious,
and sick,
and weak,
and in pain.

I'm still not sure,
and might never really be sure,
if
it's the meditation and breathing exercises,
or the rain and general passing of the storm
that make me feel better.

Did I have cold?
Could it have been the stomach flu?
Why did the Tylenol stave off the symptoms
long after they were supposed to,
but just before it started to pour?

Much like this poem,

everything

that has ever existed,

or will exist

including you,

your heart,

your life,

and your dreams,

always have,

and will forever be

composed of




"           "




and
sunlight.

The idea
that there is a time
                                             for violence, or guns;       that there ever is a need
to slaughter peaceful, innocent bystanders
in the name of an officer who willfully, and wrongfully
ended a young man's life for no other reason than he can is
u      n      e      q      u      i      v      o      c      a      l      l      y
f              u              c              k              e              d              .

I've got a funny story of my own actually;
I rose from the dead,
and then after that
I ripped people apart.

Okay maybe it’s not that funny but
you can sit there and listen to it anyway.

Listen to the story.

It’s weird at first because
all there is, is just darkness.
It’s so
dark;
it doesn’t make any difference
if your eyes are open or closed.
What you think
is that you’ve been
buried alive.

Not ideal.
That’s proper... panic, you know.
You hit out at the lid of the coffin
even though there’s no way.
But then...
it starts to give.

You have to push your way through
all the soil.
It takes ages doesn’t it?
It takes so long.

But all of a sudden
something’s different;
you feel the wind on the
tips of your fingers.
And the rain.

Because before that
you’re not really sure where you are.
But now
you know.
And you’re pushing through.
And then all this stuff at once.
The moon.
And this incredible storm blowing
and the church bell
ringing midnight
and just standing there,
nobody else around
and all of it
pushing into me.

That feeling.
It’s what being born must be like.
Except you’ve got
context.
Because honestly, dead...

Everything up to then was fear.
Everything,
even when I was alive,
different levels of fear.
But then
it’s gone.
And you’re like that:
‘Yeah, come on.
Give it to me!
Fill.
Me.
Up!’

But I tell you what,
this
hunger.
This appetite.
I could not wait to get started.