Dec 2013
It is impossible to be in two places at any given instance.
An example: I live in the little house on Valley Road. All my possessions are in my room on Lancewood Street. I live with my (chosen) family. My relatives are related to each other, as they also happen to be related to me. The love of my life exhales, soundless against my neck, while I inhale the memories of a homeless Californian who found home with me.
I am awake yet I am not dreaming.
Observe: if you cut yourself up and entrust these pieces to the farthest corners of the universe, only one of the following can happen:
1. You could stay just outside and encompass the whole universe along its perimeter (e.g. she encompasses the universe);
2. You are just you still, and is within and inside the universe (e.g. she is among the stars in the universe);
3. Your pieces will no longer be different from floating debris, ‘these’ are x number of pieces, and these pieces cease to carry your identity (e.g. ‘they’ (not she) are scattered far apart).
One cannot be all of these at once.
My heart belongs to one. It yearns for another. It believes in the one. It knows of no other happiness but with the other. I want to go, I want to stay. Distance is only too relative, yet both are, regardless, so far.
An example: I live in the little house on Valley Road. All my possessions are in my room on Lancewood Street. I live with my (chosen) family. My relatives are related to each other, as they also happen to be related to me. The love of my life exhales, soundless against my neck, while I inhale the memories of a homeless Californian who found home with me.
I am awake yet I am not dreaming.
Observe: if you cut yourself up and entrust these pieces to the farthest corners of the universe, only one of the following can happen:
1. You could stay just outside and encompass the whole universe along its perimeter (e.g. she encompasses the universe);
2. You are just you still, and is within and inside the universe (e.g. she is among the stars in the universe);
3. Your pieces will no longer be different from floating debris, ‘these’ are x number of pieces, and these pieces cease to carry your identity (e.g. ‘they’ (not she) are scattered far apart).
One cannot be all of these at once.
My heart belongs to one. It yearns for another. It believes in the one. It knows of no other happiness but with the other. I want to go, I want to stay. Distance is only too relative, yet both are, regardless, so far.
