Who is it, looking out through these eyes? What entity has taken host in my body, in my mind? A mysterious stranger. A private, secret other occupying my every experience — tasting this world on my tongue. The sense that my life is not my own grows with every inhale, greedy lungs taking up the air, extracting oxygen. The deep need for connection — the feeling of connecting to another person — it moves relentlessly and insatiably through every moment. It guides my motion, tells me where to move: away or towards. Attracted or repelled.
There is not even rest in sleeping. Dreams are of connection or loss of connection. And without connection, waking is like a bad dream. My body pulls me down into its bones. Gravity creates a heft of my weight — a heavy, slowness imbues my movements. Taking a shower, getting dressed, brushing my teeth, making coffee. The circle pattern of every morning.
It is usually necessary to let go. Not in a small way either. A writer burning the manuscript she just spent years writing and perfecting. A painter flooding the basement where he stores his life’s work — his best work. A sculptor smashing the pottery made with such careful hands. Such loving hands. What could be more heartbreaking? And yet, more freeing?
What emerges from the stream of mystery must inevitably be returned back into the stream of mystery. The constant flux of this kaleidoscope life can’t be paused or stuck or reversed. Every apparent loss opens to another riddle with no solution — another connection to be what it will be until it goes. And all that is required of me is to receive and to let go. To open my eyes and show my face to this world. And the one looking out through these eyes rises up and says “oh, thank you.”
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