July 8th

A Revolutionary Revolution

At 27,

I willed forward with hunger, 

waiting for the veil to lift 

somewhere between my fingertips.

But when it came,

it wasn’t revelation.

It was a curtain call at the end of an old act,

whispering, 

“You had it backwards.”

I wasn’t the actor.

I was waiting to clap

to a performance that had no end.

At first, it felt like loss.

But in truth, it was relief.

I was never becoming.

Because there only is. 

I asked to know love,

so I built walls

just to feel what had never left.

I asked for communion,

so I became an island,

until the ocean spoke my name.

I asked how the world was made,

so I forgot the sky

and became the soil.

It’s funny now.

How I thought I could see my way

beyond sight.

Thought I could think my way

back to the beginning.

But there was never a beyond.

And no back.

Only here.

Now. 

We forget to remember.

We lose to find.

We cry until we laugh.

We bleed so that light might see what reality looks like

from the inside.

We live to love.

And if we could only love to live,

we’d hear it again.

That song we’ve been humming

all along.

This was the year I stopped trying to make meaning

and started noticing

It’s been everywhere. 

The path:

a circle drawn

by a barefoot god-child

with dirt on his face

and a hell of an imagination.

To 28,

and going back to 1.

All                                                                    over

/

Again.

- Love