Looking back at diary entries from a year ago, even just last week, I feel a
dis co n n ect from the person I was then.
What are we but temporary beings, slices of a time-worm, coins of fat salami. Heartbeats and jagged breaths simple echoes in the vastness of the universe.
Like deceptive stalagmites, or Yellowstone’s geyser-pitted landscape, we are constantly in
flux; your cells die and your dna shrinks and you change your mind
like a girl changes clothes
as long as you are alive right now. Maybe because we are fragile, and simple going through the world snips at our clothes, smashes our glass selves into pieces;
Maybe because we are weak, and we are hurt by words real and imagined;
Maybe because we hunger for life, and are constantly searching for people to share a connection with, friends to hold close, rattling our hearts like donation-tins, a penny for a penny, trading pennies-for-thoughts;
We are in-completion;
Maybe because we are more than rational beings, and apparently love makes us whole, ‘again’ (Plato 427-347 BCE), so we join and break and join and break with others like rabbits;
Maybe because we don’t want to forget, that’s the first time i failed, she left me, gor stabbed dad, and we clutch our pain to our chests like glass shards, and the vines of our garden get cut; so the grapes never crush a good wine;
We are incomplete;
Forgetting that, to leave your past behind, you need simply to exist; the current of time drags past you, simply blink, and the ocean before your eyes is never exactly as when you last saw it.
To move from incompleteness to in completion: don’t let others put you down, don’t lay piled up with regret; we are rebuilding ourselves as we speak.