I receive words at random intervals
-from distant corners of the earth (to)
you have tucked yourself in close,
climbed the aretes of my dreams.

Please don't ask me about the cold
About the snow, about falling.
As if that is all that exists
As if freezing is the only real thing
to me.

The memory seems to scream :
 you said
He's such a searcher, that's the truth,
you said
It's all in the ride, to be free, you just
gotta get going to breathe, to really Be.

And beyond the dynamic enchantment
of your daily doings,

I am here, now.

Inside there is infinite space. It only appears to be on the outer edge of our reach. Fingers twisting in the lack of what can't be reached outside of us, they point in two directions, as if the body were pointing to something logic is too blind to see.

Sometimes, it's so difficult to believe. One minute you're colliding with another entity, and the next moment you're free.

There is a story that could be called something akin to memory, that replays again and again. It's become a sort of prayer or mantra even. The cycle of collision, and the space it creates. And I suppose it could be called something like love.

I remember when.....the ring was on my left hand. shining like snow in the sun. The luminosity of  leaving, though, glittered a little more brightly. I remember more than any fool's gold, the cold feeling of being alone sitting in the same room as someone I didn't even think I had ever known.  I remember the collision of moments that cupped their careful hands around our souls. I remember that it didn't stop the crash that broke me completely. If I've lost pieces, am I still me? This worry consumed me then. Only smaller parts of soul remained. Sometimes death isn't of the body. Still, I retained some sense of identity---it just took a while to see it:

The small piece left with so much space. My soul had the sound of a drum, rattling my body with what was left of it's core. Sometimes the bird stays in the cage when given the chance to be free. Sometimes what we don't know is more scary than any prison of our past scars seem to be.

I stayed far longer than was necessary--for us, but it took a while to fully fill me with me. I remember the bright words of a friend, they were in the shape of dreams. They were not something to be wished on--like a shooting star or birthday candle. They contained more depth than a well of wishes, they were my hope of returning (to the freedom of my true identity, or to seek it at least). They were this:

Sometimes the moments that most seem to carve holes in our heart are blessings we can't see. In some way they create a place for joy, for light, for love to live there later. Another time, when you have the room, the peaceful place for bliss to be.