unKoan

Quiet assimilation in the early hours. I pick up the journal that was once my bridge between spirit and home, and the words have lost meaning. The moon thickens daily, passes still among layers of clouds that hide an astrophile's quest. On the verge of explosion, i breathe, renewing the contracts again, again. I stop for a moment to wonder what will happen with this new sharing, possibilities of creation flood my mind. I hope that i can continue to play with authenticity, releasing the habit of molding myself to reach a certain destination. Sometimes i feel outnumbered by those deep carved synaptic hiways. I blink, seasons change, and we are now on a whole other level. The daily tasks hold me fast with a kind of sticky pleasure and i offer my wandering mind to their mundane ritual.  I am flooded with tears receiving the gifts of mothering: someone else's words beside a pink print of Aleia's right hand, tea parties, her hugs as my words fuse with emotion. Death bleeds from me, an acrid tinge into blooming sweetness.