he called me kettle, I called him pot.

Pot: My feet are sore and raw from slipping on the jagged rocks at the bottom of a mountain you sit atop, no doubt, pondering life’s great miseries. My hands are cut and stiff from the branches I’ve had to twist just to keep a steady view of you while I make my way over valley and cliff. My back is aching and bruised from the falls I’ve been privy to, all the while, pushing may way closer to you. My shoulders are out of socket and hold only weight of tiny pockets I carry to comfort you. My head is a little lazy and my vision a little hazy but I squint daily just to make sure I still see you. And as my journey sometimes pushes and my patience sometimes flusters, I know in the end, I’ll still see you. So I pick up a more steady pace, and keep in mind this isn’t a race, so long as the finish line, I still see you.

And no matter if the wounds have healed or not, if you fall know that you will be caught, and I will lift your chin to see, that sometimes looking for you, you should be looking at me.

Kettle:

 I’ve selected the highest boulder to watch you pick your way up the steep side of feeling. My heart wincing every time you stumble, I struggle to keep reminding myself, ‘ just stay put.. he’ll find you. Stay where he can see you.’ The instinct to run to you is tearing at my emotions, I want to leap back over the obstacles I had conquered before you had even thought to make your way to me. I ache to take your hand, lace your fingers with my own and show you the way to the top….but, still…I wait.

I need to know if I am worth it to you.

I will be perched on this boulder waiting, ready to help you heal, ready to see you, eye to eye.

Waiting to greet you, with my lips pressed to yours.

Emails. January 2012.

I was such a stubborn asshole.

I let him die on the mountain.

 

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Accepting truth.

Sorting through illusion is so interesting and annoyingly abstract… the waxing and waning, the attachments and aversions, the realization of mind, the deliquesce of ego. Because once to start, you cant stop.

It pulls at your heart center, it tightens with every heartbeat like a patient snake. It whispers to you from somewhere at the edges of self right before you fall asleep.

And then you start to see the shadows of your own veils..

There´s this panicked sense of certainty, as if you´ve been on respiratory support your whole life…and then coming to the conclusion that you don´t need the wires and the beeping and the trachea held open with medical grade plastic.

You´ve reviewed the medical records.

You´ve asked for a 2nd 3rd 4th 5th 6th 7th and 8th opinion.

It all agrees, this has been completely unnecessary.

Now, time to pull the tubes out, and no one can help you do it.

Note to self on facebook. February 2014

Two years, today.

This love is thunder in my heart
and honey on my lips.
Connecting in terms of infinity,
you gently shook me from my slumber…
I’m rubbing the fear from my eyes
and blinking at your light,
stretching out to the tips of everything that is,
my sight grows sharp.
This love is older than the selves we perceive.
‘we’ preceded ‘me’.
‘us’ before ‘you’
From Green Notebook. June 2013. For Phlop.