I was led to believe, at one point,
that chaos is a necessary and wonderful path– that in disorder there lies truth, and that the infinite shift and displacement of substance (both physical and perceived)
was the universe’s most pure expression of beauty.
To ride the waves: from the vast emptiness pulled by the tide, expecting to be filled with sun and warmth.
I had once found comfort my relationship with chaos.
Many days passed in the closed loop of the velvet blue rock pool: drowned, dried, drowned, dried. There is pride in resilience. There is ego in the ability to endure.
Yet, somehow dislodged from the the tidal loop, I ended somewhere between the mouth of the Mississippi and the Bering Straight, perhaps along the coast of the Yucatan,
and I began to float (Or was I sinking ? It’s hard to tell from here)
in the great vastness, away from the chaos of the coastline, I remembered what it meant to be tranquil. So quickly did I grow accustomed to the noise, to the small pains I inflict onto myself and onto others. So easy it is to accept this weight, when added a drop at a time.
Here, for once, is nowhere is particular
Not marked because of its great remoteness or known by any standard of achievement,
it exists without ego, without much mind of the tide, or what is or has yet to be
and I wonder how long this will last, because no where is ever truly still,
before I crash (with great passion, and perhaps now, some melancholy) with the chaos of the coast once more.