part /pärt/
𓄧
recorded with weekend fever gone, but under sniffles still..
what will it take for you to drop to your knees? you who is me they or i, ours and we, like synonyms, collapsing into one a reflection hunched, or huffing swearing on all gods that decent is a ride with a one-way ticket but isn’t it so that grief deferred means you’re already drowning? holding in those tears, that rage love, what cost will you bear until you sit with the holy? the present, the floor meeting shins just fall, and see the earth will not swallow but return you whole to soil, dirt richer, and feeding what will it take? to ask, who is scared, needs running? sees monsters in the shadows of a standing lampshade? who grasps at distractions? won't listen for most tender interiorities to be heard? gets quiet, so loudly, like collapsing surrender? a sorrow, already living in our neurosis hurting self and other this heartbreak, finally audible stops us from free-falling it is not over grief didn’t arrive as our captor, * but a threshold to the unknown undoing, giving way to shaky then steadied rebuilding — * actually love, it is quite oppositely our trusting guide
what practices, rituals, relationships, drop you on your knees? after years of pleasing and screaming, it was exhaustion that had me pick up all parts, gather them gently in a warm hug. i can't imagine doing anything now, short of tending to heartbreaking grieving. because all experience will be (re-)lived, yet how is a question sitting squarely in the capacity to take care of our feeling. for me, art is that blessing ~a gift of relationally practiced ritual~ leading me, playfully, seriously, ever consistently all the way in. down to riches way past my knees.
𓄧 holy glyph of heart and windpipe. of life-giving breath.
last but not in any way fucking least, adding this countercurse:
