ritual

Some part of me always wonders if we crave for the sea as the womb of this world? We became and grew in the liquids of our mothers. From the tides within her body that gave rise to me and her mothers before her, to the oceans that gave rise to all of us. Submerged in the water is where I’ve always found peace, like I can finally catch my breath where I can’t breathe. Gasping. Submerged in the liquid that my own body leaks when I can’t cope with all the feeling. Emotions spill from my eyes and into the body that I now float in. Boundless. When the water dries off, leaving its salted dusty kisses on my skin, I am reborn.

Punctuated only by moments of meals
enticing compulsive comforting

I relish in the sensory. Gobble in delight. It absorbs me momentarily and balms my aching, racing, breaking mind. My soft warm full belly – made of many more than I. We are contented and carrying.

The soft dulce tones of John Kelly accompany me in the kitchen as I methodically weigh out ingredients gram by gram. I bake 12 cookies and eat 6 of them whilst the dogs watch me with evident disapproval.

I am submerged in words. I have been for months now, or maybe years. Through all the reading and reading, some part of me feels like I’ve lost my grip on reality. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do. I am routeless and unrooted. Flip flip flip go the pages. The contents blur and fall into a gathering heap of letters on the floor.

Now the heap has grown, swollen out to cover the entire floor. A tide of text begins to rise. I will not be able to breath in the deluge and soon it will drown me.

Recently I can’t stop thinking about transubstantiation. I eat bread every day and it’s true that all sorrows are less with it. The pillowy fresh texture melts into my mouth, toasted crunching crust popping on my tongue. I eat the body of this world. I’m not mad about the notion of it being Jesus, I’ve always found it weird that he tastes like little wafery flakes of cardboard. Maybe I would have been more amenable to the idea if he tasted like fresh sourdough instead. I marvel at the capacity of soil, sun and water to create. Eat some fresh bread. Go and look at a strawberry or a carrot - bright and fleshy and beautiful. Fuck Jesus, fleeting magic lives among us.

One page a day. One sentence a day. One term a day.
every day that hands can write and thoughts can articulate themselves into lines of words on a blank white page

a cursor blinks back at me endlessly

it ticks

a clock

a bomb

soon something will emerge

eventual and gradual and slightly more than there was before

an amalgamation, perhaps

solidification

insignificant accumulation

misshapen bumpy unknowable

the more I write the less I understand.

the empty way