love letters to myself

i am searching for you in my past. in all the lives that only glimpse themselves, mere rubbings aside a wasteland of moot points and my current breath. for life times we have traveled. in and out of vessels, vexing and varied, veracious and vital, it was not these casings that caused our Being but our being in them that caused us to forget. it has taken eons to meet you. to hold on to who you are in any meaningful way. and as consciousness breaks it bevels upon unbearable to conceive of any future hours without that knowledge on my breath. you are who i am and what i am. you are the revelation and the inner trace that doesn’t take its focus elsewhere.

you are perfect knowing and i would like to know you.

i am making art for the person i will be when time and space collapse. when my small fragile mind can wrap itself around and meld back into present non duality.

the words are only loosely held together as thoughts supersede their function. what i am trying to explain has no clear definition. and so i can only spring sporadic sounds upon you and confuse you into surprising states of blissful surrender, please don’t think too hard, it doesn’t really work that way.

letting it happen is how i glimpsed you in the first place. you always showed  up in strangers first. visions to verify everywhere were road map reflections. leading me back inside, you took me deeper by proving that intimacy could be immediate. then you left. and i struggled with the paradox that the only way to know you again was to stop denying the Universal impulse within. the price to pay was making peace with unfathomable catastrophe. in exchange, in process of seeing all the most despicable qualities of existence as my own, i was also privileged the knowledge of all those soft tender pains revealed as mere illusion. if i could accept the truth and swallow all the ugly i could also attain the transcendent state of the best of you sautered to my unconsciously threaded soul
bearing connections
to the feedback loop of existence.

it doesn’t make sense
and it’s not supposed to
the stitches were important and we could never snip them even if we tried

i create for the moment of god that will always cause amnesia alongside awe. we never remember our truly great moments because the truth is not for finite creatures to hold. faith becomes ingrained in people with a cause and because I can’t remember being with you, I can’t remember being you. and yet i am forever searching for that which is already here.

i fall in love in formulaic fashion. yet standing far enough back it’s only ever you. this person wrapped inside of me. Life times of peeling away and it still feels confined.

i am waiting for my stars to align. i am waiting for contentment to derail my longing. it’s already happening. stop pissing around. just feel good about it.

simple enough?
maybe.

in the larger sense,
impossible.

but stop?
never.