A Letter to Myself
Death is the refuge much like writing in the soft sketchy shadows on paper. The interplay of light and dark and gradient textures which we too move through and within and among each other shift like our murky pasts.
How could we have been anything other than the encircling and folding, our careful paper creases like an origami figure fitted and interlocking though we cannot see it.
Sensation. Thought tither while my hairs quiver on the back of my palms, a certain shaking, always flowing never mistaken—make no mistake the same moves within me as you. We’re like draft mates, wind saints, the breeze bridging us all. You just have to let your blood feel again. Not just tepid quips or jostled, shaking, scathed wrists, no no, but that lustrous movement, that flourish of spirit and pearly, toothy grins. I remember you, sir, you’re still here, still with me. I have never left, I am still the same man. Things have just changed now. I am not alone.
I am not alone…