Orbit
For me, it’s an appreciation of my will and my willingness to release: mutual forces yet mutually exclusive.
If you feel something getting tight, start over.
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Storms on Saturn can create diamonds, uncut, but full of sheen and star. Eventually, they are forced to dissolve into a liquid, but at one time they are wholly spark and heft. [THINK: gemstones falling in space.] It’s the pressure that acts. I don’t want pressure to act, just to get me in motion, and I am already in flight.
Becoming Unbecoming
We lean towards our habit, our inventiveness. We feel what we see. We shift. We pattern. We turn. It is a revelation: the reveling, the revealing, the unveiling, the lifting off of the inner-revolutions is a revelation in itself. I walk through the room, seeing where to step, noticing where to turn, but still, I bump. Still, I bang. Still, we are unbecoming and becoming and unbecoming…
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I am unbecoming. The paths are endless now, waiting. I am rendering the rigor, the fieldwork, quartering my truths; I am beginning the story over.
I am beginning the story over. What is coming, once frozen, soon will be parched and open-mouthed, soon will be relieved and mystical and striving for a voice, a laugh, a face from within. I can smile now, knowing I took the chance, knowing I didn’t race away from the fear, the ragged, the silent flight of loneliness, knowing I went towards the glimmer, its stalk, its humbling of the self; now, I will pattern anew. The I, once heroic, will bird itself into glee, a testament to seeing, a light in the room once dark. No wait-starts, no empties of meaning, the upended now neutral. The unbecoming will become again, a story, a jumble of soft and will sharp into a shape, already familiar.
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Getting here, to this point, to the middle of this line, is a becoming, is a stare with the eye, an inherent worth, a stare in the face of the world, a wave of both truth and toxin, a whale of a run towards the light of any eye, any heart,
my heart.