A Line

When we think of ourselves we think of the things we
said meant did were want…the motions we made, the
time we lived in–seconds minutes hours–everything
aligned in rows, a regimented procession from then to
now, from before to after and we realize, we want to
realize, that we are a line, a thin stretch of something
solid between two points.
One dimension–no two–as we live these lives, these
moments with spaces before and after, with abbreviations
of what we mean when we mean something else, all
sitting waiting for the next second to fall across the
doorway of time, to add to the shadow of the past, to
become the other side of the line we call ourselves
when we ever actually call ourselves.
All of our lives we think we saw we imagine that we are
simply here, simply solid walking toward something
away from other things–an idea encapsulated within
these skins held up by these bones–meaning and meant
to love be loved have the things we have, want the things
we don’t, always pushed by parents family friends to
be something.
We stand tall we think we do we want to we look around
and see both sides of the line we’ve become when we
realized what we always were; the connection link tie
between what we knew and what we will know–a motion
captured in amber–a molecule vibrating slowly and in
concert with the frequency we call time life love here and
This line (we are) hides the point of living within the idea
that the line doesn’t exist…it is merely the contrast of dark
and light, bright and dim, the edge of the place where
something ends where something else begins and within
that instant, that miniature moment of realization we are
able to become who we are when we are who we should
be; the start-end, the up-down, the in-out…the all.

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