It is strange when simplicity steals you back. When impatience and improbability becomes fixed by a fate never signed up for, long spring snows that have broken our strides. Stranger even when I feel imbued with loves, a life not mine--want to stand knee deep in spiraled southern rivers, want to take my coffee black. As said by Pablo Neruda--'I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine.'
When forced to compromise certainties; comfort; cradles we thought would rock our worlds, then small compromise suddenly hangs no weight on our shoulders, our hearts at all. Then compromise becomes the norm, waiting not awash in gripping panics, but instead in the grips of suns or sudden, city stars. Those stars apart partake in our mourning for eventuality, not an organized but organic calm.
I know this pain, inside of, unmended by my own body, it can be no brail to read that other deeper, more damaging pain. At once I know I can not only survive but live within my aching bones; but still not him, without my blood. Not when fear so hard fought against feigned passing, yet dropped me in a jungle so full with foreign sounds. Even in this moment, with the possibility of postponement, with the possibility of missing out on the small joys I have struggled to keep closer to my chest--even in this moment I see only one failure in my life; and that is my failure to fight hard enough for, to keep my keeper safe.
Life does not reflect what we accomplish but what we accommodate, not how we kick to avoid drowning but how we bend around all circumstance; how we return even when--always when-- we know no way to tread softly home to a fallen, mortified snow.
