Again.

Again, it says.

Too much. Again.

Did I do that? Or was it done?

I’m not practiced in talking about it. Sometimes, my body rebels. Or breaks down. Or screams. Sometimes, it flares into stinging and aches, walking oddly and thinking foggy.

So the seeds sit unsown. The plans lapse unknown. And I try and practice sharing that I’m human, and no, I won’t be eating that, running there, wearing those, or brimming with the patience and clarity we are both accustomed to.

Instead, here’s me.

That’s hard, for me, to be.

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2 comments on “Again.

  1. albert says:

    Not being practiced often allows for a kind of freedom to sigh, or scream, or sing–sometimes all at once.

    I read the words again in the picture. Apart, they speak for themselves strongly, evoking questions and answers. But they converse together too.

    A special piece. Save it somewhere. I am. It’s all of us, sooner or later, perhaps more often than not — if only we are lucky enough to see. Or be blessed.

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