Then the sting, and I watched as its abdomen pumped up and down siphoning me into him. This momentary transmission of body to body to body--I’ve heard it’s only the females that sting, they suck the blood to feed their unborn children.
I can sympathize. There are so many unborn children I want to feed within myself. I line up at the pump of this computer. I line up at the pump of unrequited lust, at the open sweaty palms of want. I line up for everything I think will fill this cup instead of lifting it just high enough to see the holes in the bottom.
What’s at the heart of these desires? Love? Connection? God? Goddamnit. Why is it that all my reflections turn into theological debate between 18 versions of myself?
I don't care if there is God. I don't care if I create all of this.
I care what pumps through the veins of this emotional body. I care what carries me into the next moment, the next—weightless—the undercurrent.
Ill be 76 one day and I wonder what will pump through me then, what kids will have been fed, which will still be unborn within this papier-mâché body?
Will I be that woman against the wall at dance, rocking and smiling, something so beautiful and complete with closed eyes and arms crossed--not tight, more just enveloping? Or will I not even know how to know myself. Maybe there is a point in knowing when lines blur and its like falling upwards.
I feel like we write ourselves into life. Like we are these carbon sketches in the medium of air and if you broke us down small enough into what makes up the atom you would find us as words. And the little engines of our cells would show us their fuel, how thoughts really do become matter.
There’s this human urge to bookend things. To complete things. To check things off the list. But then one day you look in the mirror and cant recognize yourself, your hands show your map of trajectories and maybe time feels a lot more like an ocean than a cubby. Maybe we begin to let the colors mix a little and get a little less out of compartmentalizing.
Maybe death is not when we run out of white space. Maybe death is the point when we see white space in a whole new light