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14 September 2017 @ 03:01 am
turn again and turn towards this time  
i don't know where you are, in this moment. but then,

i don't know where anyone is in this moment.

i have assumptions. i could call and check. at the same time, what does it even mean, knowing someone's exact physical location? what does it mean to know someone's exact physical location when you are not there with them? because, at the same time, that only means so much, where someone is. there's the why they're there. there's the how they're there. there's the how much of them is present in that moment, in that space.

i imagine my lover sitting at his desk at work, a man before two monitors. i imagine him struggling over the course of his day to meet his day as fully as he is able, whether or not it so often feels as though some part of him is being dragged along. i think of my friends at their jobs, in their classes, out in the world or not: at home, working from home, not working at home, working on their homes. i know where some of them are supposed to be, i know where some of them say they are: but the thing of it is, where am i?

if i can't know where i am, really, if i don't have a place on this map, what does it even mean, the idea of being somewhere else?

the myriad places i am instead. so i will be here, now. so i will try as hard as i can to bring myself into the present moment. i will circle the edges of the present moment. i will hold that circle in space. i will breathe into it, expand it, drop into its center. i will drop into the center of the present moment. i will recognize myself in the present moment, and i will recognize myself in that present moment again, and then i will wonder: am i really? am i really in the present moment? am i capable of being in the present moment? am i even capable of it? and:

i will fall out of myself bringing myself into the present moment with my effort.

here i am. here i am. here i am, a servant, a slave, a willing handmaiden. a protector. a victim. a patient and nurse. a rebellious child. here i am, a voice, a disembodied voice, a voice stumbling over the chaos of her embodiment. here i am. why won't you let me be? not as in why won't you leave me alone, not remotely, not exactly. instead: why won't you let me be in the moment? why won't you let me share the moment with you? what does this moment hold, that you work so hard to keep it out of my reach?
 
 
music: celer - the satisfied disorder