After all this time, it’s still you and you and you and your dreams wrapped around me like ice and rhythm and momentary fragments of all moments pressing together like volcanic ash. I am remembering, I am remembering always. The origins, the roots, the subtle twists and turns of consciousness that lead me to this brain that is full of bumbling branches and billowing roots. The willowing out of wallowing. Always with, always without. The centerfold trapeze piece of this whole process is breathing you out, breathing you out, finding within all the frozen splices of lives gone lingering and listless. Love has always been this strong tower above and below me that belays me, belittles me and lifts me up higher than my body should even be able to go. I am silent to it, I am slave to it, I am always finding myself within it. I am always within and without it.
I am so behind, so lost, so disconnected for my absence in writing. But what could have been written about these past few years? Perhaps the world is always trying to get me lost. So that I may be found again.
I feel as though I have finally caught myself again. I had to row myself, grow myself, grieve, gather, clean, collect and feed myself back to myself. I have to give and get pregnant and raise a son before I could remember that silent voice in the middle of my mind that is sitting within. And now I feel as though myself and some ten thousand other colors have banded together to form this new selection of cells.