some letters I never wrote

 
 

      being everything and nothing, all at once, would be a great burden if being god was our fate.  but no, god whispered, more a simple imagining and the everything and the nothing being element and without subterfuge or agenda, said – yes.  yes, because of being asked.  and everything implied in such imagining, that is how it will come to be.

      that’s how matter got to become ripe fruit.

 
 
 
 
from here, I can just see what I see.  no obligation to castigate sight.  I know some few, first out of bed, no makeup, hair awry – I look and they are beautiful to me.  they can’t, they won’t see themselves that way.  at best they accept my crazy wrong-eyed sight, that’s just him.

like paint, beauty is what comes out of the bottle.  not the label.

I feel obliged to beauty.  it is, yes, a matter of choice.  no binding of my stance.  is it right when meeting that face that I not respond in kind?  that’s how I mean, obliged.  happens to be also how I learned from some others along my way.

beauty for beauty of word, of thought, of voice.  would less be a welcome guest?  no, not the same.  there might be an ocean or continents distance to reach, then adding history, experience.  but isn’t all conversation an ardent near-impossibility glimpsed even from inches away?  so perhaps there’s a threads-worth meaning to be realized.  looking at a tree a bird a thought a blue sky, is their meaning not immediate, intimate?

that much words can play as two actors on a stage.  all meaning there sought through relationship and mandatory distance, breath from breath.  no confusion necessary.  appreciation, only that.

I repeat, how do you give your life away?

holding life loosely, indeed.  (she said)
 
 
 
 
here as good as any to alight.  me, suppose I’m easily confused.  so much to drink in even one scribble here.  reminded of standing on my balcony, here, in summer now.  don’t need flowers as every different green has a scent of their own.  for me, almost so much I don’t stay long but leave.  my nose seems sensitive.  your images, your words, I’m on the balcony again.  all green, all colors.  is this what its like, loving life – and all the fish inside the bowl?

          counting weeks, counting days, counting hours.
 
 
 
 
maybe I’m making all this up but I am very motivated, and very very sincere.
 
 
 
be exactly as you are.  but if you allow, include seeing how I am seeing you.
 
 
 
 
 

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