What do I do?
I watch.
I sleep, I eat, I breathe with everything.
I move as others do. My muscles are infinitely woven with strands of life, intricate designs etched forever into my being. The curve of my lips reaches across the deep, the soles of my worn feet swim with the wind across stretches of dusky sand. I feel pain, I feel pleasure, I feel every step of the nearby beetle. I am aware of the omnipresence of the light pouring; sometimes I wonder if that, too, is shining from within me--maybe from the crowns of my fingernails? Or the flat plane of skin along my inner thigh?--a question with a hidden answer, stuffed somewhere in forgotten shelves on faraway hills. I sit on a balance, watching time travel down the hourglass. I shrivel and I soar, I blow and destroy, but I always perch comfortably, palms firm on the granite, shoulders unfailingly square.
Do you?
I do. I
am.
This is from two years ago.