impatient procrastinator

April 21, 2020

I have this book that i have been meaning to read.  I know it contains knowledge I wish to possess.  


Once i knew that it existed, it had to come home with me. I used to look at it every day.  Sometimes I would open it and read a few sentences.    


It is still there in the same place, but i have forgotten it in the middle of my coffee table, because I look around it now.


I can have the knowledge contained in the book within the walls of my home, but without engaging with its words I have no knowledge of that knowledge.  Only the knowledge that I know it contains information i want to breathe through me.    


I don't want to move it and forget that I want to read it thoroughly some day.  I wish I already learned the things it contains years ago.  


I have this thing I have been meaning to write.  It iterates in my head tumbling and thumping.  


But thoughts with words are linear

and maybe i fear the containment.


swirling thoughts and pulses overstuffed into hard syntaxes.

i may be misinterpreted.  or misunderstood.  or not understood.  or seen.  but not on my terms, because i cant control how someone else contextualizes what I say or how i steer.  when it's an offering and not a conversation, does it matter.  


to be seen 

the most beautiful and sacred of all gifts 

requires uncertainty, vulnerability

an un-swaddling 


im not ashamed


i just remember being in shame

of shame

and slave to 


and the memory of it peeks from the shadow of my aura


the thing about having a shadow, 



you are standing in the light.  there are no shadows in the dark.


it's not yet time i guess.

it would go around me, above me, below me but not through me.

I await its undeniable call at the graceful hour.


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