The things I would like to share with the world or with a special other are the things I only see when I am alone. The magic of the sky glowing with stars or with moon; shapes and shadows; silence and hum; the thoughts which flutter against my eyes, curious and brave. I wish to share them and, I think, to gift them to someone. But they are timid and only show themselves to me. They are mine. But I digress.
What a strange mystery to have this urge for “other” and for sharing with “other”. And the loss of all that mystery when I attempt connecting with other. When I lose myself in other. When I move into other, sleep with other and dream with other. And dream of other.
I am happy in this place. Can I stay here? Can I stay the hand that would pack the bag haphazardly, that would leave my true heart, that would leave my ephemeral, most secret, that would leave the knowledge that it ever existed once I cross over the wall?
No and yes. And yes and no. The gourd that holds those secrets travels with me and drops seeds as it dries and splits in the afternoon sun. The children grow and and become part of other with strange others and I do not recognize them when I pass by.