Since my brain has been going through some kind of weird emotion-chemical binge since I came home from my trip, it's been hard to write here. When I was there, I felt on the cusp of Creation, with a capital Creation. As though what was inside me had Worth. With a capital Worth. I was in a physical place that fit like fascia. Fascia: a sheet of connective tissue covering or binding together body structures. Sealike prairie grass like fascia between my fleshlayers. Opensky cloudveins. Home.
And now, I don't know what's happened. I've been manic. I've been depressed. I've been maniacally depressed and on the edge of my seat and exhausted with red wiry eyes. With a few moments of calm bluesky tranquility. With a few moments of streetwalking with music. With a few moments of drinking. With a few moments of terror. With the knowledge of how big it is. And how small I am.
I open the window, and the words don't come. Or they come and they feel Wrong and Hollow and Trite and Individual, and I erase them because erasing them feels Right and Full and Meaningful and Global.
I think, it is pretty ridiculous how it never gets easier. I think, always, it will get easier to deal with. It doesn't. It's just old things wearing new clothes, fooling me again with newfreshness. And ambiguity. So I think, I have never done this. I have never felt this. This is a New Situation.
But it's not. It's the same parts of me.
If it keeps on raining, the levee's gonna break.
It's a big if.
So, now that I've filled your eyes and mind with todo el bien, todo el mal, I have a question. A question that is one of the questions I think about in that space between consciousnesses. I know my answer to my question, but I don't know yours.
What do you want done with your body when you die?