It is difficult to know where to begin,
when we know all that we carry has an invisible weight.
Like fallen leaves drifting to the forest floor.
Some less than whole, some more.
There lies a strange state
a mess in order
a fleeting vision
a passing indisposition
an underlying, ever present abiding under-current of our natural state
where rhythm should be,
but there’s space around an expected beat
we don’t hear.
Slowly but gradually,
it gravitates and consumes you.
(and consumes you)
We repel against it
in fear and faith
in loss and reluctance
in hope and courage.
We know it isn’t always about the fight,
but for the fear as part of the lesson -
of letting go,
of unguarded honesty
of the inevitable human blunder.
Resulting in a mockery of the disparate space between expectations and reality.
But the little one inside reminds me,
it’s a world outside covered in cobbler crust of brown, sugar and cinnamon.
There’s a hopeful ignorance in
a safe kind of bliss
a state of comfort
a state of alleviation.
And in the strange (wistful) passing of time,
only tiny bits will ever make sense at once.
From withering, we harden by the day.
From falling, we let go of the weight we carry.
We once made a deal with time,
not it’s slipping by too fast –
But we knew there will always be the promise of the next autumn
to make up for the end
And a new beginning.
From a fledgling writer eavesdropping her own mind.
There, they coalesce as lumps in our throats.