If...

...there is a switch then I'm sure I've flipped it, because I walk blind until I find the light. We all do.
This is not a revelation.  This is not an 'everything that defines anything' because anything is everything and it all eventually means something to somebody. I could be nobody. I could be somebody.  I am a body that is good at nothing and then, suddenly, is excellent at everything.  It's all a 'thing' of some kind, otherwise, it would be nothing, even though nothing is a thing itself.  I'm trapped. I'm free. I'm me, me, me. I'm the record that keeps skipping while you sing songs from the heart, but the heart skips too, don't it?

Life. Life is a collection of words and actions, a movement of the mind, a sense of the heart, a kick in the gut, and then you strut, strut, strut. You strut towards something, hips and all, hair and all, eyes outlined with a thin trace of black. And suddenly, it is much harder to cry because you don't want to stain the skin that keeps you inside.

I am inside. I am outside. I'm at your side. Beside. Backside. I'm twisting and turning and laughing and and shrinking from everything that has anything to do with something that makes me aware of what I am, and who I am, because I'm too fucking good for everything and suddenly, everything is too good for me.

I'm skating on thin ice, you say, and I think, the water isn't deep enough for me to drown in.

And I keep going.

I am afraid of nothing. I am afraid of everything. I am fierce when wounded and I'm so fucking fragile when I'm fierce. You can break me, but you will not break me, because I have every right to be whole. Arms, legs, thighs, back, neck, face, eyes, lips, tongue, hair, skin and all these things that keep me in. Yes, they keep me in because I am not the trash that you take out. I am the trash that you take in. I'm worth something, because I am me, me, me, and I strut, strut, strut in your direction with the wind that pushes me along the sidewalk because I am light and it is heavy, just like the Earth wanted us to be.

I am a perfect...thing.

This weekend I spent a great deal of time watching ants in a vast space. They seemed nicer than people. Not once did they climb over my shoe or my fingers, not even when I invited them to. They are small and I am big and yet, they did not need me, as if they knew I presented them with nothing more than a hurdle over a genuine interest to help. And how can I help when my fingers are too big for the things that they carry? Yes, the things that they carry. How is it that I can carry something as big as a chair, but I cannot, cannot, cannot carry a fucking grain of dirt?  And sometimes it's as if strangers are sticking their fingers out mid-road for me to climb over, but the ants aren't stupid, they go around, and so can I.  These hands and fingers and games deter me. Who the hell do you think you are anyway, sticking your fucking feet and hands in my roadway, offering to carry what isn't yours, what you cannot possibly carry because your fucking hands weren't built for it, built for my world?

Wind in hair, sun on skin, song in mind, and all is fine, because the wind that shakes barley is the same wind that will drape night over day and bring me back to love in a wooden chest. Love cased inside bone.

Heart skips beats, but this record keeps skipping, it's a-ah- ah-ah skipping.  Now what?