Alchemy
The gift and curse of transmuting pain
I am convinced God loves writers. We come behind all of his miraculous works and paint them again with shades of love and hurt. Casting meaning like clay with words. Dimension. I was here. I came and breathed and sat on this very page. Left a piece of my soul behind for someone to discover like a time capsule for another day.
We pour ourselves into bottles and cast them into the sea. Set our hopes adrift in the consciousness of humanity. We see more, we feel more, so we must leave behind more. There’s only so much we can carry before we must pour a little more of ourselves out and cast another bottle. Coping.
Sinking. Sometimes I am deep in the abyss. Sometimes I become the abyss. Weightless. Drifting. In and out of presence. It isn’t you. It’s me. I hear myself speaking. I am a three-legged word. I am missing one and yet I still have one too many.
Words escape their mouth. They float haphazard. Detached without meaning. The more they say, the less I hear. The more they want, the less I give. Transient. I prefer the everything in nothingness to the nothingness in everything. I am moved more by the way silence sits between two people in love, than I will ever be by fleeting proclamations of it.
