For Victoria: What Does Sonder Mean?

nat-lipstadt Poems

<> Noun. sonder (uncountable) (neologism): The profound feeling of realizing that everyone, including strangers passing in the street, has a life as complex as one's own, which they are constantly living despite one's personal lack of awareness of it. Dear One: it is one of those days, when everything becomes a poem, every mundane, brushing my hair be/is a philo-treatise, & the errands of the day, starting at 6:45am with an assessment, a weighing of oneself on a numerical scale of justice, requiring one to rethink his moral behaviors of a prior day, a kind of confessional I guess, for I have never been inside one, (a confessional and actually confessing) but my hebraic genetics require Veduei (1), constant awareness of one’s everything deeds, making confessing a ongoing process 24/7 process unceasing, onerous and relieving, by reliving our each~very individual action, which means that I am in a sensory paradise / hell and sleep comes in bursts of exhaustion, as I misplace my compass daily, and the re-search required to obtain, nay, reGAIN, my footing, my true directionS, and it is worse than never ending, more akin to the regularity of irregular breathing… Thank you for “Sonder;” restoring the awe for not knowing it, and occasionally forgetting, that there are words, ready, willing, and able to become poems, as I exegesis, excise, and exercise their purpose to better to remember the worth of everyone and every thing within in a too oft / clouded, self centered “I exist , therefore I am” very limited filtering device…. so sonder becomes a poem, an essay, un écrivez, and I study your photograph, and fly away, I am in a garden, you may have (no, probably!) planted, (like the sonder word in my brain) and the colors, the soils, the colorex (2) variety teaches me you better than words… while I am sundering, sondering, you, and so many others who give me the great pauses of my existence, the purposed understanding of the arrogance of pre-judgement… Surrounded, I am breathing salt air, luscious greens, a variegated bluey (love that show) sky, and all my voices rise, in a choir of one, fo forgive me, forgive myself, for failing not to be bigger than than the distances my aging weakening senses and my low powered sensibilities physically provide, I hear you, I sonder you, and so many others, and I bind and bound myself to you and thus emboldened! to go forth and walk in unfamiliar gardens, to read better and be, between the lines y’all provide here’s where a a modest thanksgiving is due and herein provided, and the inspirations keep coming and coffee need re~reheating, so the brain can start all over again, S’wondering S’ondering just like a (wink) An American in Paris, the next poem is aborning, jealously demanding it’s very own birthing; an embryo, asking to be imagined. so thank you, dear one…