Saturday, March 8, 2014

A Meditation on Dis-ease

I didn’t feel like writing last week as I had a nasty cough. Instead I meditated on the origins of dis-ease.

Tectonic plates—

slow shifts in time; a

languid dance of

perceived stillness. A quiet

waltz to death.

Molten rivers flow beneath these monoliths.

Blood of the earth, sluggish and inert,

their torpid rhythms far below.

An aeon of travelling so small a distance.

Today, however, the tempo changes:

pressure mounts and fissures crack open.

What sparks this momentum?

My chest burns, grows hot

with need. Expression kindles:

Why love? What use this

fallible, overwrought; less than perfect

love that sputters and spurts through the cracks:

see me; see me!

Not easy this love.

I don’t want to see it, don’t want to feel it.

Love hurts and betrays; it cannot be trusted. And it burns

like the virus that lies in my chest; hot coals of fire

a miasma of emotions forcing me to look, to experience.

To move bedrock.

To trust.

To love.

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