What does it mean to "find some time"? Even I do not know. It means I am reaching. And probably not even for someone else, but for myself. This so-called self that suddenly finds itself off balance and spinning in space longs to grasp a reference point--any reference point, anything.
The bones dissolve in a moment like this. You feel wobbly. The ground that was under your feet in the morning disappears and you'd find it again but you can't find your feet to take you there.
What makes this happen? Why this body, these bones, this experience? Weather has to happen somewhere, why not here? That's what you tell yourself, but still you reach for the edge of the table when you walk by as if to steady yourself against the next fall.
Why do we resist falling? Up and down are only markers of the mind, not real places. When we fall down, there is always something further down, deeper--maybe so far down at some point that it's up. Who knows.
The brain unravels itself in these moments. There's nothing sane to say. No one to say it to. Nothing left to do but wonder, "How did I get HERE?"
And then you know, suddenly, there is no here. No I to get there and then you loose that little shred of light and you're sitting among the shards of misunderstanding and a brand new confusion.
Times like this that I know the only thing to do is to do some back exercises down on the floor and go to bed. And the sleep will be fitful and restless and I will look out the skylight and wish there was a star there, or the moon, or anything familiar at all, because I know you will not be there, breathing beside me, which is the only thing I want, or so the story goes.
I used to feel apologetic for this. I don't now. No reason to. No one has to witness this. Not even the smallest flower bends the slightest degree because of this madness. It comes from nowhere. Goes nowhere. Isn't, actually. And yet it has a weight as if it did. Leaves a wake as if it was. Feels like surely it must rip the petals off all the luminous spring flowers between here and Rocky Butte. But it doesn't, does it.
It's a secret all this. Tomorrow I will put on a clean shirt and my old black shoes that need polishing and no one will know. Not even me.