My hurt asks me to get in my body: to sweat, to breathe fast til I'm out of breath, til there is a pinching in my lungs, pain of strain in my legs. These things that bring me back to my body and out of my mind. Perhaps if my body is racing my mind can be still. Perhaps if my heart accelerates from exercise it will forget the pain of love and loss and remember that it beats for survival, not some perception of pleasure, theories of unending friendships, or beliefs that there is a match for it. The heart is a functional organ, not this imagined creation.
But the poet predicts her future in verse. The subconscious capturing of ideas on the page is sometimes a psychic act. Perhaps I've always been able to tell the future, so there are no real surprises when i hold pen and paper or press letters on a keyboard. This is the place I become, that spot where ink and words find the page and collide. Ideas turned into tangible reflection.
I am the paragraph unfinished with a topic sentence drafted. Eventually there will be a conclusion to this thesis that my everyday life is writing. This struggle is research for my becoming. There is no other topic more relevant to my life than myself. Who I am, where I am, where I'm going... These ongoing questions arrive at daily answers that are perhaps only as permanent as sand's location on a beach. These too shall be in flux, I too shall be moved, by wind and waves, footsteps and the constant act of being. Today is no different to the ocean or the moon; they continue in their cycles, adjusting to the time and season, but their essence is constant. My essence too is a constant, everything else remains in motion.