Sometimes when I want to read, I can't. I fill with distaste and disdain for each book I pick up, because none of it is Maya Angelou, or Toni Morrison, or the literary meal I need to sate my soul's craving for meaning and a cosmic guide for that moment in life.
The problem with the book I’m reading isn’t the story. It’s the problem of my living. The rote nature of it. The sentences– simple declaratives, the tasks –things that get struck from a list, done and redone.
Remember? See it? Done.
Life.
Life is not merely written down like any other list of things not to be forgotten, but witnessed so never forgotten
even after memory failed to hit record,
because a day was witnessed at its onset
is the answer.
It’s the lack of feeling mornings, not the story of what happened.
The lack of witnessing.
Mornings, that time of awakening at
the birth of the world
watch an egret’s legs in water, slender limbs glistening beneath a cool tide pool surface
barely moved in the stillness of a day that has never happened before.
The sunrise imminent,
the lack of toes in water,
the watching,
the waiting
for sunlight to crest and
for beak to breach,
the skewering of a life has not yet occurred.
Failures are forever away and there is only
time
encapsulated in
the watching of a moment.
I will swallow my morning pills, read the words, do my deeds, but first, first, I must watch.
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