Dec 2021
Born every time I form an opinion. Born every time I open my mouth. Born when I stand. Born when I move. Born when I eat, drink, shower.
And so born as I write this. Born in the choice of pen. Born in the choice of paper. Born in the decision to do write at all, trying like hell not to be born with each word. Trying like hell to get out of the way, to become empty, to disappear. Trying to be porous as the air itself.
And so it goes transition after transition, frame to frame, step by step. This is only now, after all. It’s not later. It’s what is occurring now, and one must be OK with that—the facile assumption that what is said is worth saying, worth sharing with everyone.
Born again. Her look at me—brand new born. Squiggling, squirming self arising from all that ink and muscle memory. Each word dripping with amniotic fluid. How uncomfortable it is—to be.
And so born as I write this. Born in the choice of pen. Born in the choice of paper. Born in the decision to do write at all, trying like hell not to be born with each word. Trying like hell to get out of the way, to become empty, to disappear. Trying to be porous as the air itself.
And so it goes transition after transition, frame to frame, step by step. This is only now, after all. It’s not later. It’s what is occurring now, and one must be OK with that—the facile assumption that what is said is worth saying, worth sharing with everyone.
Born again. Her look at me—brand new born. Squiggling, squirming self arising from all that ink and muscle memory. Each word dripping with amniotic fluid. How uncomfortable it is—to be.
