There are some things you just can’t quantify- creativity, balance, sense of self, to name a few. We cannot quantify emotion, we cannot quantify joy or fulfillment or apathy. We cannot quantify the meat of what makes us, us at any given moment.
Unlike days, or years, or the GPS of our external environment, our internal environment has no laws or boundaries. It is in reckless rebellion to structure and order.
The stuff that matters live like nomads in the jungle of our souls and who are we to say where the boundaries are? Where one country, one emotion, begins and where another ends?
I feel like I am learning how to be alone again. Maybe it’s that im learning how to accept myself, as me, right now.
Would’nt it be easy if “right now” just didnt change? But that is the illusion, that there is any definition of right now. Right now can only exist in the framework of there being a NOT right now. But we know that doesn’t exist. There will never be a not right now, there will never be a right now, there will just be this element, this essence of our experience at any given quantifiable breath, that we will try to box into a singular moment.
I think that’s where poetry comes in. Poetry IS the threshold. Poetry is NOT the experience, and our descriptors in words and syntax and sounds are only sign posts. But poetry is the most gallant effort our hearts make at self reflection, or this insatiable urge to quantify self.
When words won’t come,
this is perhaps the saddest space.
An orchard of the ripest fruit,
and no way to taste.