A Bigger Room

Beings have a seed inside of wanting to be: heard, seen, witnessed.  There is a balance of submitting oneself to fallow soil between disgrace and prayer.  There is a humidity of faith, to make drink of the air around us we all attempt with solemnity to the common field beyond the ego knowing the ego is the vessel one must walk into the field. 

Occasionally  we reach into a lint gunk pocket of rehash and bitten apple of the universe sort of deal. Life as a forest burns, regrows altered.  You see the genes of dead trees in the leaves of the fresh crop. 

We hope that the universe is not blanket random atomic and maybe all these revelations about life being an exercise in perception of what is behind the veil of any given moment is a constant infiniteness that the point of life is to be, to be in, to be of, and there is no trail of earning or redemption, but to be.  There were moments of learning in ticket stubs of where another comes from, who they are, where you feel present, like peeled back.  Elements of life and chosen to peel open to a more naked way of existing of traveling and being.  This is a renewal of faith in that bigger portrait.  

Another reading this makes a scalpel of vulnerability open a place in writing, a very core, naked place that maybe the other did not or want to understand but it reminds one of moments of being around the other where you do not think of the other exactly, but you think of like this door open sensed around them that you think they had open too about what life is and at times it is ugly and scary and glowing and beautiful and eternal and encapsulated in the pod of second, but it is somewhere close to the point of what life is and you were drawn to it then and frankly it ceases to about them, but this idea, this place that they help you to feel present in that felt like an awakening about what love is, what life is, and it is like a portal that one knows life is going to keep traveling and one knows logistically that was not and won’t be with the other, nor do you want it to be but they were like a key on one of the big doors in a great big hallway with a series of doors.  Writing to or about them or envisioning that place at times was like trying to focus on where one comes from and how one got to here and what is next.  The whole bit of it; the something more.  This is to attempt to understand what it is to be a human being as an honest food pellet from the universe.  In the end those are the things that matter in life.  One does not expect human relationships engaged to end up in some Cinderella like way; one expects them to decay, to become fertilizer and have seasons, some short yet powerful. 

Maybe there is a bigger room that we all have always been in and these doors are just paths of revelation, that peeling back of what reality is.  Maybe another made you feel that way once and you will always appreciate it and seek seeds like that in human relationships.  One does so before them, after and will continue in whatever number of days a body gifts.  

When the oil of ego is removed from words, maybe one can see life, love, and this practice of being human to aid rather than detract from a deep place inside few if any have ever witnessed.  Maybe feathered words might feel beautiful losing that crude lacquered weight to do some good in flight rather than only nest in art and books.  Maybe in that weightlessness ghost birds depart.