Monday, December 24, 2012

The Strange Designs of Life Within Me

I choose to eat lightly now, 
so as to allow as much space as possible
for the strange designs of life to travel.

Hurtling bulbous inflations,
yellow-red with age
and arcing widely back and forth 
as they bounce through me - 

long, slinking tendrils of paisley and purple,
mottled and winding,
stretching so long throughout my body
I lose track of them in the middle
and am only conscious of them
in those places where they end
and I begin.

Icicles. I have icicles in me,
softly melting and reforming into evermore
complex shapes of obstinacy,
beautiful in their frictionless evasiveness
and freezing cold to the touch.

Dim things, and shadows...
figurines vaguely resembling men, or women,
or both, or neither:
almost familiar forms whose surface
dips and rolls unpredictably,
contours retreating from the light.

Spirals! I could write forever to try and tell you about the spirals.
I wonder if you have them too?
They're so joyous, with strong movements and deep hues.
They seem to have a magnetism, or a gravity:
often they will draw other shapes 
into their wake as they pass,
accumulating a comet's tail of strange designs.
They seem to delight in this, accelerating faster and faster
until the whole lot of them,
these spirals and all the strange shapes caught up in their wake,
are racing through me in awesome,
harmonious exultations of being.

I have boulders too, or what feels like boulders:
heavy, rocky things, 
uneven and craggy, exceedingly solid.
They never move on their own,
they simply fade slowly 
in and out of existence,
dissolving and reforming in various places
throughout my body.

It's astonishing to think about,
these fantastic shapes... I marvel at them.
For they are me, yet they also are not,
and even though I am not other than them
they are also themselves,
and have a life of their own,
and I am writing about them 
so that I may learn to love them more
with each passing day.

Without them, 
without the strange designs of life within me,
there would be no shapes outside of me.
It is them, my inflations, my tendrils,
my icicles and shadows and spirals and boulders,
which give life to the sun and the moon,
the wind and the rain.

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