A little white ball, misshapen, waiting, on the floor.
Waiting for me. For how long, I couldn't say. Though I'm quite certain every so-called decision I've made in my life has led me to this very moment of noticing. Noticing a ball of cotton, waiting for action, from me.
The eternity I fall into after merely seeing it, is sufficient.
Bones sliding amid muscle, to bend, and there is no foreground, no background, no debt, no ex, no somethingness, no nothingness.
All comes to this,
to this non-action.
I retrieve it.
My ego finds its foot in the door.
And I don't quite whisper
to the little ball of cotton,
"That I might die with
a trace of humility,
that much even."
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
A little white ball, misshapen, waiting, on the floor.
Waiting for me. For how long, I couldn't say. Though I'm quite certain every so-called decision I've made in my life has led me to this very moment of noticing. Noticing a ball of cotton, waiting for action, from me.
The eternity I fall into after merely seeing it, is sufficient.
Bones sliding amid muscle, to bend, and there is no foreground, no background, no debt, no ex, no somethingness, no nothingness.
All comes to this,
to this non-action.
I retrieve it.
My ego finds its foot in the door.
And I don't quite whisper
to the little ball of cotton,
"That I might die with
a trace of humility,
that much even."
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